What Happens in Paris
by ArieSemir
Summary: LMHG: Hermione is stuck in Muggle Paris doing work for the Order when she received an unexpected offer. Well, she isn't having any part of that, thank you very much! But when Lucius is stuck with her, things get a little complicated. COMPLETE!
1. A smoke and a drink

Author's Note: This is my first LM/HG fic, and I'm very excited for it! Oh yeah, and I don't own anything Harry Potter, nor am I making any money off this. The fun of writing LM/HG is enough for me (as are lovely reviews… hint, hint). I might change the rating later on, but I'll be sure to let you know in advance if the prose gets a little hot and heavy.

And now I'm going to repeat the salient points: this will be an LM/HG fic; I love reviews.

Enjoy!

Chapter One:

She ran a thumb down the shiny cellophane wrapper and reflected that it felt exactly the same, no matter where she went. That squeaky noise, that faint whine never changed. If she had been feeling better, she might have thrown the pack into the gutter in anger, but she really needed a fag. Hermione scrabbled with the cellophane for a moment and ripped it off, casting the flimsy sheet, almost impossibly thin, to the pavement, where women in spiked heels would trample it and dogs shit on it. They would be tiny dogs, of course, the only sort which could squeeze into the matching tiny flats.

Perfect white circles gazed up at her, each face a little like the moon, rough and spotted with craters. She shook out one slender stick and contemplated the simple design with its single purpose of carrying an addictive drug into her respiratory system, her blood, and eventually her brain. It never took so long, but maybe the effect of that first drag was simply psychosomatic. If it were, she didn't care. It felt so good.

She tried to lose herself in contemplation of the whorls and swirls in the smoke she exhaled, rising into the blue sky. Most days, she could forget her troubles for a little while as she pondered the striking picture the old church made against the clear sky, the ancient stone somehow rendering the blue even bluer. On cloudy days, the stone church loomed over the crossroads, shadowing the modern traffic lights and cars and recalling an era of cobblestones and horse-drawn carriages. And at night, neither the traffic lights nor the cars could dispel the darkest shadows lurking around the steeple and the pointed roof over the nave.

But her mind insisted on returning to the slip of paper crumpled in her possession. Not paper, parchment, yellowier and heavier than the bleached wood pulp, beaten thin, with which she had grown up. Hermione could picture that first piece of parchment she had received so many years ago emblazoned with her name in bright ink. Lately she had begun to wish that she had never seen that letter, for if she had not, she would not have this new letter burning a hole in her handbag. If she had not, she could sit here and bask in the sunshine and enjoy her smoke and glass of Riesling.

It did her no good to dwell on 'ifs', though, so with great reluctance she fished around in her bag and brought it out to rest on the table. The mild, warm sunshine reflecting off the endless stretches of pavement did nothing to cushion the shock that rose in her every time she read those words.

"Ludicrous," she muttered, "The nerve." Disdain darkened her quiet voice as she glared at the parchment as she might regard a piece of trash smeared with unmentionable stains. Still, she made no move to brush it from her table. In fact, she arranged her wine glass with care that it would not drip on the message.

She stared at the parchment for a few minutes, then removed another sheet from her handbag. The handwriting on the two slips matched exactly, as she knew they did. "Stupid, arrogant git," she whispered viciously. A passing waiter shot her a curious glance, but she was too absorbed in her reading to notice.

But she was not angry at the man's stupidity – in fact, he was far from it – or his arrogance, to which she was quite accustomed. She was so irritated because he was, in the end, right. A rather periphery concern was how he had managed to send the message to her at all. As she frowned, she finished her Riesling and was surprised to find the glass empty. With a long-suffering sigh, she left a few coins and made her way back to a tiny flat with a pretty little garden view.

The climb up four steep flights of stairs winded her as usual. Naturally, there were no lifts in the building. She tossed her handbag on a coffee table and went to gaze out the window. Little as she liked giving up magic for weeks at a time, it was relaxing to leave the gore and casualties of war behind for a while, and she had grown up as a Muggle, after all. It felt… quaint, when it was not overly frustrating.

Shadows in the garden lengthened as the evening wore on, and she left her small bedroom for the kitchen down the hall. In little time, she had prepared a pasta meal and returned to her room to bring out a mostly-full bottle of indifferent rosé wine, made worse by the time it had spent in the coolest corner of her non-air-conditioned flat. She found a glass with only a little bit on stickiness on top of the coffee table and nestled in the wide window seat to eat and drink.

She watched the bright floral spectrum beneath her window fade and melt into shades of grey touched with orange from sodium streetlights. When the sunlight failed, she switched on a dim yellow light and replaced the dish of her lap with a book and another cigarette. Not even the shock of the message she had received could completely spoil the pleasure of reading, though she did find her mind wandering from the pages more often than usual.

Strains of raucous Irish folk music drifted up to her, finally breaking her concentration for good. She hunted a scrap of paper to mark her place before pulling a jacket from her closet and leaving down the stairs, recalling only when she reached the bottom that she had forgotten her pack of fags. Tonight she had plans to wander the streets in the midst of another open-air music festival. The Irish musicians a little ways down her street drew a huge crowd by the time she reached them, twirling and shouting in an ever-spinning wheel around the central players.

After watching the dance for a few minutes, she decided to throw caution to the wind and attempt to join in the manic whirling. A snake of dancers passed near her, and she hooked one elbow through another young woman to join the sinuous line. She danced until she had lost her breath (it must be the smoking, she thought) and felt a cramp in her side and then slipped out of the crowd to see what else the night had to offer.

In the distance she could see a group of singers perched on some kind of vehicle, crooning to a sizeable audience. She made her leisurely way to the melodic R&B group, content to pick out phrases here and there that she understood. A few songs later, she stirred and went to seek out new entertainment. As she meandered, she stopped for a few minutes at several gatherings, but none held her attention for long.

Finally, the night began to cool, and she started to make her way back home. Sometime during the evening, she had crossed the city's central river, the Seine, and now she followed a thin stream of people over an ornate bridge. Had she stood on one of the bridges running parallel, she would have seen a gilded gold angel hovering in a beneficent position over the water. She stopped halfway to look down the river at the city, monuments and office buildings lining the banks.

She leaned her elbows on the cool stone and watched glints of reflected light sparkle in the river's dark currents. A stream of slow jazz drifted through the night air, thus completing the idyllic Parisian night.

"Lone Mudbloods should not place themselves in such precarious spots," a male voice purred in Hermione's ear as a strong hand clamped on her upper arm.

She struggled as her captor dragged her shoulder over the edge of the bridge. It would not be graceful, but… she hooked her knee around the man's thigh and shoved backwards. When they fell together in a heap, she twisted around and scrabbled until she found a long, slender wand at the man's waist. His larger hand crushed hers, but she refused to relinquish her grip, even as tears came to her eyes. She thought she had recognized the voice, and the face she saw confirmed her suspicions. Malfoy the Elder, sender of a very suspicious letter she had received earlier.

"Let me go," she hissed, "or I'll cast every hex I know and a few I've thought about trying, right at your-"

"Truce! I only came to have a word with you, girl, and as a sign of my good faith, I'll remove my hand, so long as you allow me to stand." His warm breath brushed her cheek. Odd, she would have expected frost to form in front of his mouth.

True to his word, Malfoy loosened his grip and actually let her hold on to his wand. She sighed, somehow annoyed that he had proven honest in even this simple matter, and clambered to her feet, still clutching the length of wood. As she did so, the strange and amused looks passers-by were giving them registered, and she felt a sudden, juvenile urge to pout and stick her tongue out at them. He rose much more gracefully and looked down at her with a little smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"I don't see what you have to smile about," she said. "I could maim and kill you at any moment."

He laughed. "Because you hold that? Physically, yes, you are capable, but I know you. You would as soon strike a child as an unarmed man under truce."

His all-knowing tone infuriated Hermione more than the smile, and she almost retorted with a painful curse before she realised, a split second before she would have spoken the words, that he was most likely goading her into doing just that. No doubt a man like this had rigged his wand to inflict a nasty surprise on anyone who tried to use it without his permission. She should know; she had such protection cast on her own wand.

Scoffing, she let her hand fall to her side. "Then say whatever you came to say. It's getting cold out."

"Perhaps we could retire to a more hospitable setting? I'm sure you must have a favourite café where we can sit and converse."

She considered his proposal and nodded. "Fine. But first…" In one quick movement, she raised her hand and flung Malfoy's wand over the side of the bridge. It seemed to hover in the air for a moment before falling into the river with a gentle splash.

"You stupid-"

"Oh, give over," she interrupted. "If you can't retrieve your wand from a little bit of water, you're a sadder specimen of a wizard than anyone thought."

He glared but did not contradict her. They walked together in silence, each keeping a suspicious eye on the other. She brought them to a cosy bar and café, lit by a handful of flickering light bulbs. Malfoy chose a table for two in a dark corner, a good distance from anyone else. She eyed the unobtrusive ashtray and thought wistfully of her newly-opened back at home. A waiter asked them what they desired and, without consulting Hermione or the menu, Lucius ordered a bottle of their best red. Her estimation of him rose a scant point at his flawless French.

Once again she thought of the picture they presented: an older man with a distinctly aristocratic cast and a pretty young woman (for so she was and had only discovered it very recently) sitting in a shadowy corner late at night, staring at one another as if the rest of the world had disappeared. It was better than wrestling on the ground, she supposed. Nonetheless, she hastily tore her brown eyes from his cool grey and glanced at her surroundings.

"You're more of a challenge than I suspected," he said without preamble. "My son underestimated you at school, but I promise you, I will not repeat his mistake."

Was that a compliment or a threat? His tone seemed to carry hints of both. She fought the blush that tried to rise in her cheeks. Just because she had not heard so much as a kind word from anyone in the wizarding world for weeks…

As she opened her mouth to deliver a snappy rejoinder, the waiter returned with a bottle and two deep glasses. He showed the label to Malfoy, who gave the barest nod. He did the same for the tiny amount the waiter proceeded to pour into his glass. She watched as her glass filled with the rich wine.

"Now then…"


	2. Rainy Interlude

A/N: I have no idea how long this will be at but my chapters for this story are tending to run a lot longer than usual. Anyway, happy Cinco de Mayo! (FYI: it's the day the Mexican people threw off the French… NOT the Spanish!)

Read, enjoy, review!

ON TO

Chapter Two:

A few days after that strange – and somehow satisfying, or at least vaguely flattering – encounter, a cold front moving down from the Arctic met with warm Mediterranean air over the city. As rain pattered on the roof and windows, Hermione thought the metaphor would fit very well her odd meeting with Malfoy. She supposed he was the chilly northern wind, except he had sought her out on purpose, unlike insentient jet streams. But he did make her want to scream and hurtle flashy curses his way, so maybe the analogy could stand.

A low rumble of thunder followed by a sharp crack broke into her reverie, and she looked up to the window. From her current position, she could see faint, wavering orange light and trails of raindrops running down the glass. She could never decided whether she liked the sound of falling rain or not, whether it lulled her to sleep or kept her awake half the

night and depressed her besides.

What she had never debated was that it was above all a solitary sound. Perhaps she had simply never found the right companion for a rainy night, but something about the meaningless staccato sharpened the feelings of isolation she usually felt as muted background noise. Sometimes it was a pleasant feeling, distilling the essential Hermione from the muddiness of an ever-more confusing life.

But now it was just lonely. Perhaps the rain reminded her of tears – tears she had and would again shed, others she thought herself too proud and composed to let fall. Or perhaps the irregular taps emphasized the silence between them, like a dark beauty mark served centuries ago to accent a fair complexion.

"Or maybe I just need to get out of this room," she said aloud with a bitter little laugh. That was certainly true. While it was convenient to blame her lack of a social life on her duties, she knew that the fault lay elsewhere, on her own shoulders. She could go out and mingle or smile back at the young men who smiled at her, but…

She closed her eyes for a moment against the dim wave of pain that thought carried. It all came down to fear. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, and she knew it. She sighed and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. With the rain pounding overhead and her thoughts stampeding through her brain, there was no way she would find sleep for a long time.

She left her tiny bedroom to stand by the larger window in the main room for a little while, smoking and musing on the confrontation of opposing air masses. Officially she abhorred Malfoy and everything he stood for, but at the moment, she wondered if she might not prefer him to her own quiet company.

"God, I'm desperate," she remarked as she flipped a light switch. She padded to her desk, where an electric kettle sat on its stand. After holding it a few seconds under the tap, she returned it to the stand and plugged in the cord. As the water heated, she chose a packet of tea (she hated packets, but they were convenient here) and fetched one of her few mugs from its home near the sink.

The water boiled a few minutes later, and she let the tea bad seep as she straightened up her desk. Reports and scrap paper, along with the old café or shop receipt, littered the wooden surface. When she could see a little more of the desktop, she squeezed the last drops from the tea bag and threw it into the bin, along with the cigarette she was careful to extinguish.

The main problem with her tiny flat here, she had decided a long time ago, was the lack of a nice little refrigerator where she could keep a bit of milk for her tea. Mug in hand, she crossed to the door and opened into the dim hallway. Careful not to spill steaming tea on her fingers, she tip-toed to the kitchen and prayed no one had used the last of her milk. While it was accepted that tenants sharing a common kitchen might nick a wedge of cheese or a piece of fruit now and then, taking the last of someone's milk was considered very rude.

She smiled a little to see a full half litre left. Excellent. At least she would have decent tea tonight, even if it did come from a bag. On her way to the kitchen, she had not bothered to switch on any lights, so the dim refrigerator light was the sole source of illumination she had to judge when she had added enough milk. She sipped the tea, nodded, capped the bottle, and returned it to its home on the top shelf before making her silent way back to her room, a sliver of light in the dark corridor.

She walked through the doorway, took another sip, and almost choked.

"What are you doing here?" she spat as her free hand flew to her side. Damn. No wand.

Lucius Malfoy stood at the window, staring into the stormy night. He looked over his shoulder at her with a mild, questioning expression as if to ask what she was doing there. As if he had more right to be there than she did. His eyes flicked to the mug she held.

"We both know what a resourceful girl you are. If I assure that I am not armed or accompanied, I hope you will restrain yourself from using that on me."

She buried her scowl in her mug. How had he known that she had been considering just that? "You want me to take you on your word, Mr. Malfoy?" She barked a short, incredulous laugh. "I thought you told me that the reason you sought me out was that you believe me to be intelligent."

"You are bright, and I cannot believe that as such, you would go into hiding in a strange city without some small measure of protection, even if you were denied your wand, like some sort of criminal."

"It was my idea," she replied hotly. "I didn't want to take any chances that one of you would find me, and I know a couple of artefacts capable of tracking magical objects, not just recently-cast spells."

He smiled. "Yet here I am despite your caution." Well, there was not much she could say to that.

"Still, I knew you would not be entirely foolish. I would be very surprised if you did not have a high-quality Sneak-o-scope hidden nearby… perhaps in your desk? And that," he nodded to the tiny dream catcher suspended over the door frame, "doubtless has embedded within a few protective stones… agate, jasper, onyx and tiger's eye?"

He must have studied it carefully to see all that. Had he been waiting just outside her door all night, waiting for his opportunity to slip inside… or had he been here before?

She crossed the room, leaving a wide berth around her involuntary guest, and pulled open one of her desk drawers. None of her detectors showed any signs of distress. She had always been a little sceptical of the properties of rocks, but her devices should have been having a fit at Malfoy's proximity.

"You tampered with them."

"I have not. You can see that they were still functioning."

Yes, she could see that. If they had been neutralized or otherwise touched with magic, she would have recognized the signs, she was sure. They hummed and whirred contentedly as she shut them back in the drawer. Then he did not mean her harm, but she supposed that he could think of hurting or killing her as doing her a favour. However he had managed to trick her sensors, she was no closer to trusting him.

"Is that how you found me, then?" She had thought that passive devices like these emitted too little magical residue to alert anyone who was looking for traces, but even she did not know the full extent of Dark capabilities – or her side's, for that matter.

He clucked his tongue in admonishment. "I already told you that I would not reveal that information so soon, unless you would tell me something I wish to know…"

"Forget it," she snapped.

"Very well. I do not expect to receive anything useful out of you for sometime."

She blinked and, remembering the mug in her hand, took another sip of tea. Keeping her eyes trained on Lucius, she edged to the tattered loveseat – the only furniture in the room besides the window sill or desk chair where someone could sit – and sat. "Then what are you doing here?" _What do you think_, her brain replied_, he felt lonely, hearing the rain, just like you, and came to keep you company?_ Her lips twitched in a smile. Of course.

This time, the corners of his eyes crinkled a very little bit when he smiled. "Let us say, for the pleasure of your company."

She almost wanted to smile back. There was no denying that he could be a bloody convincing actor when he tried. After all, that and thousands of Galleons had once (and probably more times) spared him from prison. She considered him for a moment, then spoke.

"As my guest, I would offer you tea, but I'm not sure if I have any clean mugs, and the milk is down the hall." If Lucius Malfoy could be polite to a Mudblood, she could be civil, nay, hospitable to a Death Eater. Not that she would extend the courtesy to offering a cigarette, which was much dearer around here than a tea bag.

"Quite unnecessary," he said as he shrugged out of his overcoat, which looked to have come from a Muggle designer, albeit a very expensive one. When Lucius blended it, he did so with gusto.

She stiffened for a moment at his sudden motion, and he chuckled. "Paranoia is exhausting, isn't it?"

"Nothing I can't live with."

He glanced up from folding his coat over his arm, and she saw surprise in that expression, followed by an equally shocking – and fleeting – look of weariness. Then that small, insufferable smirk reappeared and that strange moment passed before she had time to process what she thought she had seen. That look would stick with her, though.

"Patience has always been one of your special virtues, hasn't it? Patience and a certain… disregard for the spotlight. It's enough that you know what you've accomplished." He gestured with his coat. "What would you like me to do with this?"

"Sell it and donate the proceeds to people who aren't eating tonight. Short of that, you can lay it across the desk." She was glad that she had cleaned it off a few minutes before he came.

"No one told me how amusing you are." As he walked to the desk, she noticed the quiet grace with which he moved and the perfect cut of his Muggle suit. He was taller and broader than many of the French men she saw, and as well-dressed as the best of them. Well, it was no secret that the Malfoys were all too good-looking for anyone's good.

"I imagine there is much we have yet to learn about you. Hidden depths…" He turned, and his pale eyes bored into her as if determined the plumb them right then and there. "Victories we have attributed to other members of your Order."

Sometime in her face or its too-carefully controlled stillness at that moment must have given her away because his smirk widened. "Ah yes, I have hit upon something. Yes, we most certainly have underestimated you, and I could wager than even your friends do not fully appreciate what lurks behind those eyes." He was walking slowly towards her but stopped when she bolted to her feet and strode across the small distance between them.

"You think I'm some stupid little girl you can flatter and win over with pretty words? I'm insulted but hardly surprised. Your problem is and has always been that you don't really understand how people work, no matter how well you know them. Why do you think Voldemort has failed time and again? It's not because of the handful of incredible wizards and witches who oppose him but because, in their hearts, almost no one wants your evil to triumph. People don't care as much about blood as you like to believe, except when you shed it." By the time she finished, she was close enough to feel the faint stir of his breath.

"And as for the Order, you will never begin to comprehend why we continue to fight despite your threats and everything you can conjure. Most of all, you will never understand me, and you will never persuade me to abandon my friends. So leave… you're wasting my time and yours here."

She wished she had not left her tea on the floor by the loveseat; her throat felt parched. Most of that she had thought in bits and pieces of over the past couple of weeks since Malfoy had first approached her via letter with his offer, but it had never seemed so clear.

In spite of her anger, he did not leave. His eyes took in her flushed cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of her chest and dropped even farther before flicking back to her eyes. It knocked her a little off balance, that look. It was not the way a senior villain was supposed to look at a seething enemy.

"Nor did anyone warn me that you've ravishing when you're angry."

Sure, she had heard stories of Dark sorcerers trying to seduce members of the Order and other influential people, but she had never thought Lucius Malfoy quite the type to engage in such… low tactics.

"You're contemptible." She jerked her head toward the door. "Get out."

He continued to regard her without the smallest visible trace of annoyance until she sat heavily into the window sill seat in defeat. At this, he smiled.

"Better. Now, let us discuss our affairs like two adults instead of squabbling children or green idealists." He left to retrieve her mug and presented it to her with a mocking little bow. She took it without smiling but managed to bite her tongue as he sat at the other end of the window seat. Something like a silent truce passed between them in that moment. Lucius would keep to a minimum his jabs and even more ridiculous flattery, and Hermione would hear what had to say.

The conversation was stimulating, if doomed to fall into a familiar, endless pattern. The falling rain filled in the gaps nicely, and before long, she realised that she had relaxed so much that she was beginning to drowse. With Malfoy the Elder in the same room, smiling that little cat smile of his. She sat up straight and tried to glare.

When she did so, he chuckled. "I can't say I'm accustomed to talking people to sleep. What a trusting lamb you are."

She narrowed her eyes. When he was not trying to kill her or lure her to the side of evil, he was insulting her. "That makes you a pretty poor wolf."

"Merely patient," he replied and leered at her again. She wanted to cover up with the rug she kept near the window but braved his glacial stare.

"Why did you come here?" she asked, breaking the silence. "I can understand working your little tricks on me once you were here, and I understand why you accosted me the other night, but why now? Isn't there Dark magic you could be performing at this hour… innocent Muggles you could be torturing?"

He leaned back against the window sill, caressing the silver head of his cane while he framed a response. It was the first time that she had caught him at a loss for words, though he was hardly flustered.

"The rain," he said after a long pause. He stood and fetched his coat, draping it over one arm, before approaching Hermione where she sat. Hating the difference in their height and the feeling that he was looking farther down at her even than usual, she stood without thinking.

"Such a strange sound," he continued, eyes locked on her. "I had the bizarre sensation that I was the only human being in the city, perhaps in the world. Outside, Muggle gazes passed by me as if they saw nothing at all." His eyes drifted and stared at nothing for a moment before he shook himself. "Ultimately, I came for the same reason that you did not turn me away."

She told herself not to indulge him by asking what that reason was because she knew that she would not like the answer. She supposed that she already knew it, but to hear it she would have to acknowledge the truth of it. And that might be dangerous.

But Lucius appeared content to wait there, near enough to touch, until they both expired.

"Fine," she began in her most irritable tone of voice. "Why, to my eternal regret, did I not turn you away?"

"Don't pout. You're a powerful and intelligent witch, not a spoiled child."

Lightning flashed all around them, shortly followed by a noise like a crashing tree. To her credit, Hermione did not jump, only stiffened a little and dropped her sullen expression.

"I know very well what I am and am not, and I know that you will not be satisfied until you enlighten me. Why are we here, together?"

His lips curved, not into his cat-like smirk but into a warm smile. "Because we are both brilliant, solitary warriors, and the rains pounds on the rooftops with a strange and lonely sound."

For a ludicrous moment, she thought he was going to… Ridiculous.

She was not aware that she had spoken that last thought aloud until he chuckled again, cold as ever. "Do not concern yourself. I would not presume so, not without your express consent." His arrogant smirk said that no, he would not presume to do anything of the sort without her permission but that if he wished her to, she would beg.

That look broke whatever spell – no pun intended – he or the rain had cast, and she sat down in a huff. With one last low laugh, he turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.

If she had been the dramatic sort, Hermione would have thrown her empty mug at the door, but she was above all sensible. Sensible and patient. She would continue her work here and await the moment when she could direct her ire where it would do the most damage, preferably with Malfoy at the other end of her wand. Instead, she lit up a fag and sat and smoked and stared out the window into the storm.


	3. Breaking and Entering

A/N: This chapter ran longer than I usually like, so I advise you grab a cold beverage and snack before you settle in to read (enjoy, and review)!

ON TO

Chapter Three:

A shrill whine from inside her desk interrupted Hermione's reading as she smoked and basked in the sunshine streaming through her window on a day she did not have to work at her Muggle job. She marked her place and hastened to see which of her sensors was detecting something. For a split second, she had not known what to make of that noise, so much time had passed since she had last heard it.

It was a Sensa-spell, reminiscent of a compass except that the slender hand (shaped like a real human hand) gave off a noise halfway between a whistling tea kettle and a distant firecracker. The whine dropped in pitch after a second or two, which meant that the spell had been performed a long ways away. Occasionally, it picked up traces of Wizarding Paris, but only when someone or someones cast an exceptionally strong spell. But the hand was pointing in a different direction today.

The whine picked up again and then dropped off. Either another spell had been cast in quick succession from the same locale, or the first was still working. She grabbed a small notebook and a pen and ran out of her flat to the street below. In the almost complete absence of magic, the spell detected could have been cast as far away as the city limits, so Hermione hopped aboard a metro train headed in approximately the same direction as the hand. Conscious of the risk it posed, she had brought the Sensa-spell in her handbag and peeked at it when she descended from the train, hoping no one had paid too much attention when it whistled on the metro.

She took the stairs back to the street two at a time, arriving in the afternoon sunlight out of breath but more energized than she had felt in… too long. The shrill pitch rose and fell much more quickly now, signalling that she was very close. It was not until she had hurried down several blocks that she realised the full danger the Sensa-spell posed for her, not merely exposing Muggles to a magical device but also exposing her presence in a potentially harmful situation. And it was also at the moment that she realised that she had left her pack at home.

She hissed a quiet word – ah, the wonders of wandless magic – to mute the whine and watched the hand shift as it pinpointed the location of the spell. It would continue to point after the spell had terminated, but the agitated vibration it had just acquired meant that whatever had first alerted the Sensa-spell was continuing. Whatever it was, a single drawn-out spell or a heated exchange, Hermione was about to walk right into the middle of it.

In front of her loomed a stately hotel, and the hand pointed right in between the lobby doors. Luckily for her, people were streaming in and out too quickly for anyone to stop a rather shabbily-dressed young lady from dashing into an elevator. She clutched the sensor in her hand, feeling the vibration build as the elevator slowly rose. As the fifth floor, it went into a frenzy until she feared it would tear itself apart. She got off at the next floor and ran down a flight of stairs.

The hand was steady now, indicating a room at the opposite end of the hall. As she approached, the hand swung slowly until it pointed straight ahead. Room 543. Do not disturb. She swallowed. Perfect silence greeted her, probably the result of a silencing charm, but she could feel something through the heavy, ornate door when she set her hand upon it. A passer-by gave her a strange look, and she composed herself, knocking with an apparent confidence she did not possess.

It occurred to her in a flash that Malfoy would probably stay at a place like this if he did not wish to be seen by any of the wizarding community. Had she walked into the middle of a torture session, a little Death Eater fête with a helpless victim as the centrepiece?

She knocked again, harder. Suddenly furious, she curled her hands into fists and pounded on the door as hard as she could. From a room a little ways down, a middle-aged man appeared and ordered her to stop making such a racket or he would call hotel security. Without awaiting a reply, he turned and vanished back into his room.

She gritted her teeth. There was one final chance… "Alohomora," she whispered. If she were very lucky, perhaps the Death Eater in charge had forgotten to place a magical lock on the door, relying on the silencing charm and the door's deadbolt. To her great surprise, the doorknob clicked and yielded when she tried to twist it.

It opened to a scene she would never have dreamt to find. A tall, emaciated figure draped in black stood over a barely-conscious Lucius Malfoy. A rasping voice cast the cruciatus curse over and over again at its victim, writhing on a Persian rug. The torturer was too engrossed in his or her work and Malfoy in his agony for either of them to notice Hermione's intrusion. To her horror, the figure picked up Malfoy's cane, caressed it, and raised it with a blood-chilling laugh. Thinking fast, she decided that the only possible plan did not seem likely to succeed but would at least give her a good story… if she survived to tell it.

She ran at the dark figure and tackled it as fiercely as the rugby players her Muggle school friends had idolised. The wand flew out of reach as Hermione seized one arm and twisted it behind her victim's back. Prostrate on the floor, he or she grunted with exertion and tried to fight until Hermione nearly wrenched the arm out of its socket. After that, the raspy voice had to content itself with cursing as much as it could, pressed into thick carpeting.

During this time, Malfoy had righted himself and searched for his captor's wand. Hermione looked up to see him, pale and sweaty (and dressed like a Muggle, a distant part of her brain noted) but fairly composed, grasp the wand and turn to aim it in her direction. He wore a terrifying expression, every muscle in his face taut in a half-grin, half-snarl, and his long hair plastered to his skull. It seemed to take him a moment to recognise his saviour before his face settled into a closer semblance of its habitual faint sneer. He acknowledged her with a curt nod, and…

"Avada kedavra!"

Then several things happened simultaneously. A bar of green light shot out one of the wand, Hermione rolled herself away from her capture, and Malfoy fell into a convulsion on the floor. A moment later, Hermione strode over a kicked the wand out of Malfoy's hand. He grunted in pain, and she felt a brief burst of sympathy in spite of herself. She bent over and stuck the wand into her bag, a perfect fit.

"If I had meant to kill you," Lucius said as he stood up, "I would not have missed."

She crossed her arms and glared. "You didn't have to kill anyone!"

"If you're worried about the Muggle gendarmerie, don't be. A Death Eater will arrive shortly to check on her progress. When he finds her dead, he'll remove the body and all evidence that any of us were here." This he said casually as he headed into an adjoining bathroom.

"It's not that," she shouted through the bathroom door, though a part of her might have been a little bit relieved. "We could have brought… her to justice." Her. She wondered who lay at her feet.

Derisive laughter greeted this assertion. "The way your elders once brought me to justice? Forgive my scepticism. Think of it as a final mercy. My Lord would have his hands on her much sooner than any prosecutor, and she would have begged for death before the end."

He re-emerged from the bathroom, face washed and hair tied back in a queue. She thought she could see a hint of discolouration at his neck, possibly bruising, and his shirt was suspiciously dark and torn in places. What had she stumbled in on?

His expression softened a little as he approached her. That unnerved her as much as anything she had seen so far that day, and she froze. When he raised his hand, she instinctively clamped one of hers over her bag. He chuckled and gently touched her hair, tracing his fingers down its messy length.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," he said softly. "It seems I owe you a debt, and a Malfoy always pays his debts."

Had she heard that before? She could not remember.

She dropped her eyes and tried not to fidget. "You can start by telling me what's going on here."

He turned away from her and walked toward a closet in one corner of the luxurious chamber. She realised that she had been holding her breath and now was free to exhale. A second later, she inhaled sharply when, with complete disregard for modesty, Malfoy stripped off his torn shirt and tossed it to the floor.

The proper thing to do at this juncture was of course to avert her eyes, but, well, what could be the harm in looking? Bruises and cuts marked the pale skin, and she could not help but wince as still-fresh blood oozed down his back. Still, she watched with fascination the way his shoulder blades and the muscles of his back shifted as he rummaged through the closet.

"Wait," she called hardly knowing why she spoke. He looked over his shoulder and winced a little as the movement pulled at one of his manifold injuries.

"Your back looks terrible. You have to clean it up a little if you don't want infection to set it. Do you have any magical creams, or…?"

He shook his head. "No. Nor do I have my wand at present." A heavy sigh escaped his lips. "I suppose I will have to rely on Muggle folk medicine for the time being."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Hermione found herself laughing. "You sound as though we're stuck in the Stone Age. Sanitation has come a long way even in this world. Soap, for example, is one of the many modern marvels you'll find in any Muggle bathroom."

She tried not to look at the body at her feet as she stepped past it. Later she would freak out and have nightmares, but right now she had to keep her composure. Her stomach turned mutinously, and she thought longingly of how a fag would calm it.

"Come on already."

Leaving his closet, Malfoy followed her into the bathroom. She gazed around herself in awe; it was larger than her entire flat. "Sit there," she ordered, indicating the toilet. Feeling the full strangeness of the moment, she ran hot water over a plush hand towel and unwrapped a cake of perfumed soap. First to dab away the blood, then clean out the wounds.

He did as he was told and looked as uncomfortable as Hermione felt, in his distant way. Her hands hovered for a moment just above his skin, uncertain where to begin. She swallowed and started wiping the worst of the gore from his back. He tensed but otherwise gave no indication that he felt any pain.

"Is this okay?" she asked, feeling somehow silly as she spoke.

"It's fine," he replied through a clamped jaw.

She continued in silence, torn between revulsion at the ordeal he had endured, sympathy for his pain, irritation at her sympathy, a terrible craving for a smoke, and frank admiration of his physique underneath her fingers. No one in the wizarding world would believe their eyes if they walked in, she thought, a junior member of the Order of the Phoenix tending a senior Death Eater.

And just in case she forgot that she was indeed tending a Death Eater, she caught a

glimpse of the Dark Mark on his forearm. Her mouth dried even as she told herself she was being ridiculous. She could not very well have forgotten, now could she? As she cleaned his back, she focussed her eyes on his injuries and tried not to look at the mark. Just seeing it there so near made her feel unclean. It was always there, she argued silently, you just normally don't see it. Nothing's different now. But it felt different.

After a few minutes, she worked up the nerve to ask another question. "You never told me what happened here." At least, it was almost a question.

Lucius sighed and rolled his shoulders. "I should think that was apparent. My sister-in-law was paying me a social call. I forgot to wish her a happy birthday, you see, and Bellatrix hates that."

Hermione stopped and stared. From his seated position, Malfoy turned to regard her in the mirror. He smiled. "And they say we Death Eaters have no sense of humour. Close your mouth, you'll catch flies."

Her mouth snapped shut, more in surprise than anger. Hadn't she once said those exact words to Ron?

"My Lord is unhappy with me at the moment, but he'll be impressed that I thwarted his favourite lieutenant."

At this, Hermione dabbed a little harder than necessary. "You murdered an unarmed woman after I subdued her!" She went to rinse out the pinkened towel and vigorously rubbed soap into the cloth. Hmph. To think, she had felt sorry for him a few moments before! She was very satisfied to hear a hiss of indrawn breath as she spread soapy lather over his wounds. A tiny part of her wished she had iodine or peroxide or alcohol at hand… to properly sterilise his wounds, of course.

"The circumstances are irrelevant. However, it will probably be for the best if I stay out sight for a little while. My Lord might react… precipitously to seeing me again too soon."

She snorted. "And what does a Malfoy know about keeping a low profile? Tell me, where do you plan on going after you leave here?" His back looked much better already under her careful hand.

"I know a tolerable sort of establishment in the first. Overrun with American tourists, but what can you expect these days?" he answered as she rinsed the cloth once more. With a few quick strokes, she wiped the soap from his back.

"Turn around," she ordered. "I might as well send you to your grave looking presentable." She hoped her expression did not betray her thoughts too explicitly as he spun around to reveal a well-muscled chest, more lacerated than his back.

His eyes narrowed. "I wager I'll outlive you and your futile Order."

She shrugged as she bent and began repeating the process on his chest. "I'm sure you will," she said in her most bland tone. "Let's pretend for a moment that I'm a Death Eater sent by Voldemort to kill you. I ask myself or someone who knows what the ten most expensive hotels in Paris are, and then I send ten of my minions to bribe, blackmail, or otherwise intimidate the managers of each of them into alerting me the minute he sees a man matching the picture I have."

She paused. "How many hours do you suppose it takes me to find you?"

Silence fell again as she attended him. Trying to act nonchalant, she rested her free hand on his shoulder with the aim of keeping her balance as she angled to reach every bloody spot. His skin was warm to the touch… of course it was, she told herself. He's human, if barely. The muscle was round and hard under the skin, reminding Hermione of the comparative delicacy of her own frame.

"I gather you have a better idea." To her great shock, he laid a hand atop hers. His voice became low and caressing. "Some place a little… closer to you?"

She jerked her hand away and hastened back to the sink. Insufferable. Worse, he had used his left hand, and she could almost feel a greasy taint like oil on water brush her knowing the Dark Mark lay so very near her. She should not have said anything about his idiotic plan, should have let his precious friends kill him as soon as they could. Let her read about in the next joyous message from the Order. Fine, she would offer no more of her advice if he was going to act like that.

"You look utterly foolish when you pout, like a little girl who didn't get a pony for Christmas. I'm going to ask for your help, Miss Granger, and in exchange I'm offering you all the information I have on my Lord and his allies."

Her wide eyes met his. "All? But I thought you planned a reconciliation with him?"

"Eventually, but I must first survive his wrath, and I'm certain that you can help me stay alive. And I'm not completely blinded by loyalty… the possibility of my Lord's ultimate defeat has occurred to me." His cat-like smile faltered a bit as she scrubbed his chest but never faded. "You cannot mean to renounce this opportunity to sway one of my Lord's highest-ranking allies to your way of thinking."

"I'm helping you now, aren't I?" she huffed. "But please stop calling him 'my Lord'. It's worse than 'You-Know-Who' and it's… servile." Once more she went to rinse the towel and wash the soap from Malfoy's chest. He was looking much better, of which she felt quite proud.

"There, that should keep you in good health until you can take a shower and buy some antiseptic."

"Again, I thank you. Am I safe to dress now?"

"Go ahead."

They returned to the bedroom, where Hermione's stomach heaved again at seeing the deceased Bellatrix. "Could you please hurry?"

He changed into a pale blue shirt, a darker jacket, and a tie. A flush rose into Hermione's cheeks when she heard the click of a belt buckle, and she turned to stare fixedly at the door. One whoosh and rustle suggested that he was removing his trousers, and another that he was pulling one new ones.

"You could have warned me. Are you finished yet?"

"I am."

Before her seemed to stand another wealthy French businessman, surrounded by grandeur slightly marred by blood and a corpse on the floor. His own injuries were mostly hidden by his tailored jacket, and no one would think to look at him that he had just endured possibly hours of torture. She wondered if his typical Frenchman persona included a penchant for smoking… it was tempting to ask.

She shook her head. "If you're going to keep a low profile, you're going to have to find new places to shop, to eat, to spend your time in general." Her forehead crinkled in thought. "What do you do all day here? Why are you in Paris at all?"

He cast one last look at Bellatrix's body as he walked past and into the corridor, after politely gesturing Hermione to lead the way. His answer did not come until they were both in the hall, and when it did, it was most unsatisfactory.

"The same thing any tourist does, I imagine. I'm recently quite taken with Versailles, for instance. It seems even Muggles are capable of grasping the concept of luxury now and again." He glanced down at her. "It's infinitely more amusing than teaching English at that… business school of yours."

"How do you-" she began, a moment before realisation hit her. "You're spying on me!"

He looked quite unconcerned as he pressed the button on the lift and waited. "At least I may be grateful that your obsession with routine left my days mostly free to dispose of as I wished."

"Well I'm glad that I'm such an easy target!" she replied hotly. "And what exactly were you looking for?" She began to feel afraid that Voldemort's inner circle knew more about her work here than any of the Order had suspected.

The lift opened in front of them, and Malfoy gave a tiny shake of his head as they stepped inside. A middle-aged woman with dyed blonde hair and a shockingly short skirt tapped her foot while they entered and continued doing so during the entire ride down to the lobby. A younger lady who might have been her daughter railed at her in a very loud American accent, rendering any other conversation impossible.

Lucius cast a contemptuous glance after the departing pair before resuming their own conversation. "What I was looking for…" He stopped and looked up. "Damn, I forgot something in the room." He started to turn back, but Hermione laid a hand on his elbow. His annoyed look met her most stubborn expression.

"We're leaving here as quickly as we can. If it's urgent, you can arrange for the hotel to ship it to you wherever you go."

He pursed his lips but did not argue. His hands tugged at his cuffs, and Hermione wondered if it was his infamous silver-headed cane he was missing. She wondered what he would say to find out that Bellatrix had come very close to beating him bloody with it. Well, she was glad not to see it and hoped he would forget about it long enough for someone to dispose of it.

"Let's return to the spying," she prompted after a moment of silence.

"As you wish. It was not spying, precisely. As we have previously discussed, I came to make you an offer-"

"- which I will never accept."

"As you say. My… the Dark Lord believed that you would react so, and when I informed him of your initial response, the matter for him was settled. I was to kill you."

A passing bellboy shot Lucius a wide-eyed look which the latter did not notice. Hermione gasped. "Kill me? But why? And why didn't you?"

At this, Malfoy stopped short to give her one of his long, penetrating looks. She felt as if she were being weighed, measured, and categorised by that look… and did not enjoy the sensation. Her fingers twitched.

"You're an extremely valuable asset to your Order, more than they and perhaps even you recognise. The Dark Lord knows that killing you would strike a powerful and demoralising blow to your allies although I believe that no one knows how important you are."

Hermione thought of Harry, who had only become more driven to fight with every successive death they placed at Voldemort's feet. It was more proof that he and his followers truly lacked a fundamental understanding of their opposition (and, she suspected, human beings in general).

"If that's true, then why am I still here?"

They stepped into the afternoon sunshine and blinked furiously at the sudden brightness. Without consulting her – this was beginning to be a pattern – Malfoy set off across the busy street, barely sparing a glance for traffic. The man was mad, as if she needed more evidence of that.

"That's what my sister-in-law came to inquire after today. Ultimately, you have my high good opinion of you to thank for that," he shouted above the roar of traffic. At least, he raised his voice.

When they reached the other side, safe and sound, Hermione looked at him incredulously. "I'm alive because of your good opinion of me? Haven't you forgotten something… say, my family history?"

"Is it so hard to believe," he asked as his lips curved into that familiar smile, "after everything I've said about both of our associates underestimating you? I believe that to kill you now would be a potentially great loss to the Dark Lord. Unfortunately for him, he does not share my opinion at the present moment and suspects me of having erred most foolishly in this respect."

He led them to a taxi stand where several cabs waited, idling with their windows rolled down. "Are you free?" he asked in that accent-perfect French.

"Yes, sir. Please enter."

He did just that, opening the door and waiting for Hermione to step inside before following.

"Where is our first stop in my new, low-profile existence?"


	4. She Comes By Night

A/N – Thank you so much to all my readers and reviewers! I'm so sorry I haven't replied personally to you guys, but the past week has been insane. Pure madness. But I appreciate every one of you! Oh, and don't worry if you're a little confused by this chapter... you'll find out what happened in the next chapter.

ON TO

Chapter Four:

City lights overpowered all but the brightest stars and the pale moon. None of the buildings she saw were familiar to her, but that was no obstacle. Her Lord frequently sent her to unknown parts of the world to fulfil His orders. She had Apparated into a vast park with a black iron fence running around its edge. Reflected light danced the waters of a fountain, now still except for tiny ripples stirred by the wind. She laughed. Muggles were so concerned about wasting their precious energy, counting their metres like grubbing little misers.

_I know this place, I do. What is happening? I've been here before, I've…_

Her Master had given her detailed instructions, and she set off now to follow them. Her destination lay a short way away, a dignified establishment overlooking an avenue spotted with occasional passengers even at this hour. Most of them ignored her with the disinterest of city-dwellers focused on their own tasks, and the few who did look at her hastily glanced away. Her Lord had commanded her to dress like these Muggles, but her skeletal frame and wide, manic eyes would never blend in, no matter what she wore.

Luckily for those few, she did not see them at all but concentrated wholly on her goal. It was a face she knew well, angular and aristocratic and above all, proud. For years, she had relished the idea of reducing that well-bred and well-fed arrogance to snivelling tatters, and finally, soon, she would have that chance.

_Orders from whom? What orders? These aren't my thoughts. I don't want to do this. I don't want to be here!_

Not tonight, but as soon as the sun rose, she would seek him out. As with many of her Lord's instructions, she could not fathom the reasons behind some of the orders, but it did not matter.

She grinned into the warm night air. His time was coming, at long last, she thought, and did not know or care whether she meant her Lord's or her intended victim's. Her amusement was a grotesque sight to behold, black stumps of teeth in a gaping maw catching the occasional reflection of a nearby streetlight. She swept inside the hotel and barrelled down on the night clerk, who winced and tried to sink behind the desk when she saw her.

_What is she seeing? What is going on? Why does she look like she's seeing the devil?_

"Bonsoir, Madame," the young woman began in a quavering voice, but Bellatrix cut her off.

"Room 542," she croaked.

The clerk's dark eyes widened, and nascent tears gleamed under fluorescent lights. Bellatrix's grin broadened. So one of her Lord's other servants had stopped here earlier to leave instructions for this chit.

"Prenez-le," the girl whispered, holding out a flat rectangle as far from her body as possible. "Allez-vous en. Foutez-moi la paix." Bellatrix snatched the card and left for the lift. It was a familiar-enough contraption. Behind her, she heard a burst of murmured French in what sounded like a prayer.

In a few minutes, she stood outside the room next to hers, staring at it with a fixed grin, as if she could see her victim through the door. Scenes of past interrogations and punishments flashed through her brain, each image more exciting, more savoury than the last. The screams of pain, the blood, even the ultimate killings were just ornamentation for the most beautiful moment of all – the moment when a human spirit broke. The stronger the will, the more violent the blow, although it often manifested as a whimper of a single whispered word. In the rare cases when the victim did not break, the slow prolonging of torture held its own joy.

_These thoughts, they're inhuman. I'm in the mind of a heartless, soulless creature, a slave to a greater evil. Please, oh God, I have to get out, I can't…_

She hardly saw her own room at all, only imagined the unknowing victim on the other side of the wall. Let him sleep soundly tonight. He would be that much stronger in the morning to endure her offering. Bellatrix did not bother to undress or wash or pull back the duvet before falling asleep; she only did this so her Master could communicate with her through her dreams. He told her of Malfoy's transgressions and how she was to punish him. This time there would be no escape, no bargain he could make to erase his sins.

_Please, I cannot bear to wake up like this. I don't know what's happening to me, but I'd rather die than spend another moment in this lunatic's head._

Her eyes opened to the grey light which precedes the dawn filtering through her wide, east-facing windows. Any moment now. She stood at the window and fixed her eyes on the horizon, waiting motionless until a sliver of gold appeared between city buildings. There. She left her room and went to knock on the door of 543.

Lucius Malfoy, already dressed and alert, answered and hissed at her to come inside before someone saw her.

"Have you come here to return my wand?"

After the girl had tossed it into the river, he had retrieved it only to have her Master confiscate it as chastisement. He could have ordered a new wand but had undergone her Master's punishment. A touching gesture, but it was not enough.

_Me, that girl is ME. This is impossible. Oh, Lucius, be careful, she means to kill you. I can't stop her. I'm in her head, but I can't control her._

Bellatrix brandished her own wand and pointed it at him. The first trace of fear flickered across his face as he backed a few steps farther into the room.

"My Lord is disappointed. He has perceived your infatuation with the Mudblood girl. He sees into your soiled mind. He knows that you have betrayed Him in your heart."

She glanced at his clothing and grimaced. "You look enough like a Muggle already, primping for a visit with your Mudblood lover. How appropriate." She grinned.

"Surely you can still recall your moments of glory under my Lord's command, all those Muggles you tortured and killed for the amusement. Now that you look like one, prepare to die like one."

"I am loyal," he insisted, voice still admirably controlled. "I believe that our Lord has severely underestimated the girl's potential service to us. She has been cast into exile here, isolated from her dear Order. It will take time to persuade her, but it is an indication of how loyally she will serve our Lord when I succeed. If you kill her precipitously-"

"Silence! My Lord has heard your excuses, and He tires of them. He commanded you to ring her to Him or to kill her, and you have failed to do either. He will not allow you to deny him again, as you did for over a decade. You have outlived your usefulness, Lucius, and your son has not lived up to your promises."

To her delight, his eyes slitted, and his voice lost some its icy calm. "My son is loyal, as am I! You are making a mistake, sister. I will deliver the girl as promised. I will…"

She ignored his pleas and cast a silencing charm around the room. His already-fair skin paled further, and she could see panic steal through him. His nostrils flared, and sweat broke out across his forehead and above his upper lip. He could sense his own death in the air.

"Narcissa sends her love," she said before raising her wand. "Crucio!"

_Not this, please not this. No one deserves this, not even Lucius Malfoy. Stop it… I can't stop it. I'm sorry._

He fell to his knees and doubled over, as if suffering from stomach cramps. He shuddered but did not let a sound cross his clamped lips. Bellatrix decided to draw this out as long as she could – it was not an interrogation but a death sentence she was to mete out.

"My Lord was kind to send me to you," she said as she let the curse fade.

He looked up at her, hatred written clear on his face, lip curled and every muscle straining. "You're insane."

_God, I don't want to kill him. I never wanted to kill him. I never wanted this! Please, let me go, let me die, let me…_

She cast the cruciatus curse again until he lay curled on the floor, convulsing and gasping. For a change, she cast a levitating spell and slammed him into the decorated walls, relishing the solid thump of his limp body against the unyielding wood. She took care not to damage to room badly, as her Lord would expect her to clean up and leave no shred of her passing. Lucius was nowhere near broken, but cracks ran through his tight hold he kept on himself.

She rejoiced to see it. So long had she watched the tight-lipped smirk as he sat at her Master's right hand, so long had she heard tales of his worldly success as she rotted in Azkaban. He was much too fond of the world, was Lucius Malfoy, much too impressed with his own wealth and intellect. He had never feared and loved her Lord properly. Now he would learn, now that his death drew ever closer.

But even bruised and bleeding, he refused to scream, to beg for mercy. He grovelled to her Lord but no one else. That would change.

"I must say, you behave better under such difficult circumstances than your son. He's proven such a disappointment to all of us, even his doting mother. He inherited your pride but none of your strength."

Incredibly, he pulled himself, shaking, to his knees and then to his feet. "My son… is loyal. He is… a Malfoy." He forced out the words from unwilling, agonized lungs, but force them he did. "He will survive… he will see your broken corpse… at his feet. He will… avenge."

_No, not again, please! Please get it over with! Kill him or kill me, I don't care! Just let me out of here!_

She answered the pathetic threat with another crucio. And finally, he began to scream. She could not have said how long she stood over him, alternating the torture curse with violent slams against the wall or ceiling. Once she threw him right into a desk and believed him dead, so still did he lay after his head cracked a corner. But no, he still lived, protected by his ludicrous crop of white-blond hair. She was glad. No inanimate object would rob her of this sweet kill.

The sun had risen to its zenith when something went wrong. One moment she was towering over him, ready to beat him to a scarlet mess with his cane, and the next, a great weight had dropped on her back, forcing her to the ground. Bellatrix lost her wand. She struggled to free herself until the intruder almost pulled her arm out of its socket. Very well, she would bide her time. Reinforcement would be coming soon to monitor her progress.

_Me, that's me, I remember, I stopped her. I – oh God, he's going to kill her. He doesn't know that I'm in here, oh no, not now…_

A little ways away, she heard Lucius stand up and walk slowly across the carpet. Her wand. He was going to retrieve her wand. He must have known that she had woven a protection spell on her wand to deliver a searing jolt of pain to anyone besides her or someone she trusted – a very short list – who tried to use it.

The last words she heard were Avada Kedavra. The intruder jumped away, but Bellatrix knew it was too late for her. Her last thought before she died was a prayer of love and gratitude to her Lord and Master.

Hermione woke up with tears streaming down her face and did not know why. Nothing remained of her dream upon waking besides a nauseating sensation of infection from a pathogen she could not see.

- _Take it. Go away. Leave me alone/in peace._


	5. An Afternoon Invitation

A/N: Thanks as always to my readers and reviewers! Want to hear something funny? Whenever I upload documents here, I label the them with the story initials and chapter number. Well, that's not funny. The funny part is this: the initials for this story spell out WHIP. Awesome!

Oh yeah, and there are minor HBP spoilers here, or what could be construed as HBP spoilers but really, aren't _necessarily_ spoilers, since this takes place a few years after the series ends, and… never mind.

ON TO

Chapter Five:

The next day, Hermione sat down and attempted to explain in a carefully encrypted letter to the Order what had happened the previous day. Her task was complicated by the fact that she had neglected to mention her other meeting with Malfoy and the message he had sent her with that ridiculous offer of… an alliance of sorts. She had not meant any harm by it, but the entire episode had just seemed rather silly to her. It would all come to nothing, or so she had thought at the time.

She had begun and discarded several when the ring of her mobile startled her. Days passed when no one called her, and when someone did, it was usually one of her students calling to cancel an appointment. Her mobile did not recognise the number, displaying a string of digits headed by the UK calling code. Besides her parents, she could not imagine who would be calling her from Britain.

"Hello?" she said cautiously.

"Oy! Hermione, is it you?"

She grinned. She definitely recognised that voice shouting over the line and imagined the spectacle he must pose at the moment. A weight that she had not known was there lifted from her heart.

"You don't have to shout, Ron. Where are you calling from?"

"It's her!" she heard and was met with cheers and whistles. "We're in a booth in Muggle London. Hold on, McGonagall wants…"

From her end, Hermione picked up sounds of shuffling and muttering for a minute or two before another familiar voice, reedy but strong, spoke.

"Miss Granger, is it really you?"

Though her former professor was nowhere nearby, Hermione stood up a little straighter and glared at the disorder around her. "Yes, headmistress, I'm here. How did you get this number?"

"Mr. Weasley first suggested the idea, and your parents owled us with you number for your… what do you call it? A mobi… telly…?"

'Best stick with mobile," she replied with a smile. "How is Mr. Weasely? And Mrs. Weasely, of course?"

"They're all well, but we're afraid that you may be in grave danger."

Hermione's throat tightened. It was suddenly hard to swallow, hard to breathe. She ordered herself to focus.

"What kind of danger?"

"We have learned that there has lately been a murder in You… in Voldemort's ranks.

We are not yet sure who has killed whom, but the most important part is where this occurred." McGonagall took a deep breath, preparing herself to deliver a difficult piece of news, but Hermione beat her to it.

"Yesterday, in Paris. I know. I was there." A dizzy spell clouded her vision for a moment, but Hermione shook it off in the next moment. A smoke would clear that up, just as soon as she finished on her mobile.

Now it was the headmistress's turn to gasp. "You were there? I don't understand. What are you saying, Miss Granger?"

She would not have to write that letter after all. As quickly as she could, she recounted the story of the previous day, from the moment she had noticed her Sensa-spell's activity until she left Malfoy at a considerably less ostentatious hotel with orders that he call a couple of people she knew who were letting flats. He would certainly not stay in the city long enough for fulfil any lease contract, but enough money would soothe any grievance.

As she spoke, it occurred to her to wonder how much time remained, how much Muggle change her friends had until she asked and McGonagall told her that Harry had helped them buy a calling card with money he had already changed. There was no time to ask after her best friend, but Hermione wished she cold have. It was not until that moment that she realised how much she missed her friends from Hogwart's: her once-boyfriend Ron; her best friend, the famous Harry Potter; his girlfriend and Hermione's closest female friend, Ginny.

She knew that they were all working together now, but that knowledge was not nearly as satisfying as a good, long chat. She would have loved to see their reactions to her story of saving Malfoy's life. It would have comforting to talk with Harry about the nightmares he had sometimes, see if he could make any sense of the one she knew she had experienced but could not remember.

"That certainly changes things," her former professor finally said when Hermione concluded. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you how dangerous Mr. Malfoy is. Of course, we'll want to take him into custody as soon as possible…"

Please, yes, take him off my hands, she thought.

"… but perhaps that would not be advisable at the moment."

Not advisable? "Headmistress?"

"You seem to have established some sort of rapport with him. He might be more amenable to sharing information with his saviour than with any of us. And unfortunately, I'm not certain that we could guarantee his safety, if Voldemort really has turned on him."

Hermione sighed and stared out the window. She had hoped that the Order might be able to take him away; he confused and frustrated her like no one she had ever known. She wondered what the headmistress would say if she admitted that she found herself more and more attracted to Malfoy and almost laughed aloud at the idea.

"I understand, headmistress. Do you have any idea how much longer I'll be here?"

In the pause that followed her question, Hermione heard the answer before her professor said anything. She repressed another sigh.

"No, I'm sorry, Miss Granger. You're doing fine work over there, and the dangers here are greater than ever. People are dying, and we cannot risk you." Her tone brooked no argument; they had debated her departure many times. She did not like it, but she could not think of any legitimate reason to stay.

"I'll try to keep an eye on Mr. Malfoy… and headmistress? I have Mrs. Lestrange's wand in my possession. Could you send someone to fetch it? It makes me a bit… edgy." A fleeting sensation that the wand was tied to her nightmare came and went almost before Hermione could make sense of it. The wand… she would have to remember to look that up the next time she had access to a wizarding library.

"A cousin of mine is visiting Lyon right now… I'll ask her to stop by that tower, that tall skeletal thing. Today, say, at five o'clock, local time."

"Thank you. I'd better say goodbye… how many people are in the phone booth?"

"You don't want to know. Goodbye, Miss Granger." A chorus of goodbyes echoed in the background was soon off by a click.

She smiled. It was so pleasant to unexpectedly hear from friends like that, even if it did make her a little melancholy. Only as she reviewed the conversation in her head did she realise that they had an appointment with a student half an hour before the intended exchange. Perhaps she could take Guillaume on a field trip, she thought. There were always English-speaking tourists, especially at the Eiffel Tower, with whom he could practice, and they could finish at one of the English pubs in the area.

The morning wore on as Hermione gratefully lit a fag, wrote, and re-wrote lesson plans for her French students of business English. Even when it was frustrating, she enjoyed the challenge and the notion that she was helping others with her knowledge. Her other work – for the Order – did not thus receive her full attention, but she had ample time to do both to everyone's satisfaction. For the Order she served as… a sort of administrative assistant and researcher, sending and receiving reports which she then categorised, processed, and synthesised. She also redirected mail through the Muggle post, so no one would become suspicious of a great number of owls coming and going from odd locations.

But she would probably not have had to leave England at all if members of the Order and people sympathetic to their cause had not come under steadily increasing attack since Voldemort's full-fledged return. She had never thought seriously about leaving herself until about a dozen people approached her, together and individually, suggesting that she take some time off until things cooled down a little.

Well, she would not take any time off while Voldemort lived, but she did agree to leave the country, for as long as the Order recommended. People had argued against her continuing Order work at all, but she could see their relief when she refused. Paris had been her idea, a different country but near enough that she could return in a matter of hours – by magical or Muggle transportation – in case of an emergency.

As she was revising a lesson plan on the internet – something she had known little about until a few weeks ago – a knock sounded at her door.

"Entrez," she called out, stubbing out her cigarette and waving her hand through the acrid smoke.

"Merci bien, Mademoiselle."

She looked over her shoulder in surprise. Then again, she was not sure why the sight of

Lucius Malfoy standing in her doorway should surprise her anymore.

Well, thank God he's alive, she thought and then realised what a strange idea that was. She wondered if she were beginning to understand that shadowy nightmare and hoped she was wrong.

"I'm in the middle of working, and I slept terribly last night. Is there something I can help you with?"

He wore another suit today, this time with pinstripes. For someone who hated everything Muggle so violently, he seemed quite desirous to pass as one.

"As a matter of fact, you can. I'm dreadfully bored today, and you are going to_ déjeuner _with me."

In response, she picked up her notebook and waved it at him. "I said I have work. If you don't want to eat alone, I'm sure you can find a companion quite easily in this city, looking like that."

He crossed the room and plucked the notebook from her hands. "The internet," he read aloud. "While many of the business terms used online are similar to those used in face-to-face or in telephone conversations, there are some which are particular to the internet. The most well-known of these is probably 'e-mail'. In addition, many words are used informally to designate internet functions when preceded by an 'e'." He paused. "E?"

"Never mind, and put that down." She checked the time on her mobile. "It is about that time. Fine. I'll go eat with you."

Looking down at her, he regarded her with a most insulting expression. "Not dressed in that, you certainly will not."

There really was no winning with the man. In lieu of an answer, she hefted one of the cushions from the window seat and threw it at him. She missed but thought she had made her point.

"Go away, then. I have work to finish before this afternoon. And what is with you today?" The Lucius Malfoy she knew did not ask Mudbloods to a chic lunch in Paris, not even if the Mudblood in question had saved his life. Friendly was not quite the word for him… manic, perhaps.

"We're alive," he said with a touch of disbelief at her show of temper. "Yesterday I faced certain death, and so did you, for that matter. My sister-in-law would have killed me whether or not I had told her your address… and then she would have hunted you down." He inhaled deeply as Hermione shivered at the mention of that woman. "What can I say? I wish to celebrate the fact that I lived to fight another day."

Maybe he had a point. Her lesson plan did look rather dull after that speech, and he did have good reason to celebrate. "You win. Find something suitable for me to wear," she said with a nod in the direction of her bedroom, "and we'll go wherever you like, but I can't stay long. And you're paying." She resisted an urge to comb her fingers through her hair right then and there.

The look he cast at the indicated area was sceptical, to say that least. "I had something else in mind."

That was how she found herself drinking champagne for lunch, dressed for the occasion in Dior. She felt ridiculous but happy and more than anything else, paranoid that she would spill something. They sat outside, enjoying the warm spring weather and the diverse sights afforded by passers-by. A wide parasol shaded them from direct sunlight, so neither was forced to squint the entire time or worry about getting annoyingly uneven sunburn. He did not even say anything when she lit up a cigarette.

"I can't decide if my students would take me more or less seriously if I dressed like this all the time." They would definitely take her less seriously if she drank too much champagne for lunch.

Malfoy poured another glass for both of them before replying. "You could, if you wanted. I told you, a Malfoy always repays his debts."

A fleeting vision of herself strolling down tree-lined boulevards attracting envious glances passed through her mind, and she smiled at the image. "And what is the going rate for your life, Monsieur Malfoy, translated into euros?" She shook her head. "You're not going to buy me off with a new wardrobe."

He returned the smile, and it even looked genuine. "Good girl. If I could… buy you off, as you say, with a new wardrobe, you would not be worth the expense."

She frowned into her fashionably cold soup. "Is it always a test, then, with you? It must be exhausting to constantly try to live up to your standards." Spending this much time with the father, she was beginning to understand a little better the son.

_He inherited your pride but not your strength_. She shivered again despite the young afternoon heat.

The muscles in his face tensed a little, as if he knew what she was thinking. "Think of it more as an ongoing evaluation. Surely you continually examine yourself in order that you may better yourself. Why should you not extend that critical eye to those who surround you?"

She took a sip from her champagne flute as she pondered his question. "It seems to me that they might have different ideas about self-improvement and that it's really up to them to decide what's best for themselves."

"Even though people are generally blind to their own weaknesses?"

She nodded. "Even so." If nothing else, she decided, he was at least an engaging conversationalist. Challenging. He forced her to clearly articulate and defend her ideas, so different from his own in most areas.

"And what about you, Mr. Malfoy? Are you as blind as the general populace to the flaws in your character?"

A faint smile stole across his face. "I should hope not, but I imagine that you and I have very different ideas about what exactly they consist of."

Arrogance, vanity, bigotry… yes, he was probably right about that. They continued talking as they savoured the good food and the good weather, never on any subject that might inflame their tempers. Hermione would never have imagined that she and Lucius Malfoy shared enough interest to carry on any kind of conversation that did not descend into a wizard's duel.

They were holding a lively debate over whether the legendary Serein Sala had actually been a vampire, as rumours often claimed, when Hermione remembered to check on the time. "Bloody hell," she muttered when she looked at her mobile.

"Something wrong?"

"No, everything's fine, but if I don't leave right now, I'll be late meeting one of my students." It occurred to her to ask whether he were still spying on her, but of course asking now would only serve to rouse his suspicions. She would have to take that chance. When she stood, she found that her head swam a bit before clearing up again. Lovely. She lit another fag.

He rose when she did, looking much steadier than she felt and offered one of his mocking little bows. She was starting to hate those. "Thank you for the pleasure of your company," he said. He sounded amused but not insincere. "I've not experienced such in quite some time."

She was not sure how to respond to that. If she were honest, neither had she been so stimulated in the past few months, but she did not like to admit that even to herself. Instead, she contented herself with offering brief, reciprocal thanks and – against her better judgement – her mobile number, after making sure that he knew what to do with it.


	6. Rejection

A/N: I didn't notice that this was such a short chapter until I uploaded it to Sorry about that! I'll try to get the next one up a bit sooner than usual to make up for it. Happy Memorial Day weekend for the Americans (I guess it's not such a cheerful holiday in itself, but getting Monday off and an excuse to grill are cause for celebration)! Also, _do _I have a multinational readership? That would sure be exciting.

Read, enjoy, review!

ON TO

Chapter Six:

It was relief to hand over Bellatrix Lestrange's wand despite the necessity of hiding the entire transacting from the eyes of Hermione's nearby student. Even though she had only been carrying it for a day, the feeling that it was tainting her with its evil past had grown so bad so quickly that she had experienced monstrous nightmares when she went to sleep. The hazy memories from her dreams sharpened for the brief moment that her fingers touched the plain length of wood, and she heard insane laugher echo through her brain.

The headmistress's cousin thanked her in a few words and then disappeared into the crowd. Hermione stared after her for a little while, admiring the woman's stealth. She lost sight of her in under a minute. Behind her, Guillaume was giving directions to a group of young women, Irish by the sound of them, giggling and whispering to one another.

"Corcoran's," one of them was saying a little too loudly, as if increasing the volume of her voice would make it easier for Guillaume to understand. "You know, a pub. Where they serve beer."

Guillaume's furrowed brow smoothed over as comprehension hit him. "Corcoran's! Yes, I know where there is a Corcoran's at Saint-Michel. Do you know how, euh, how to go to Saint-Michel? I can…" He traced a pattern in the air with his index finger. "… show on a map."

The girl giggled and shot mischievous looks at her friends. "Jesus, we forgot the map." Her eyes slid to Hermione with a speculative expression, one eyebrow raised. "She wouldn't mind if you came with us, would she? Just to show us where it is, nothing funny."

Guillaume bit his lip and looked at his tutor. "Euh, I do not think…"

"Go ahead," Hermione interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "Class is finished for today." He would have an ample opportunity to practice English at least, and she could enjoy a fag earlier than she had expected and leisurely walk back home, time she would use to process the day's events.

A cool breeze sprang up as the sun began to set in earnest. Crowds overflowed the pavement and darted in and out of erratic traffic. Horns blared, a few people cursed, and a siren sang its two-note cry several streets away. She passed boulangeries and patisseries, stopping occasionally to admire the elegant and colourful creations under glass. As usual, the sight of all those rich sweets led her to wonder how French women never seemed to grow fat. Not only did they enjoy the breads and cakes, but also the wine, the cheese, the chocolate…

She turned onto a wide avenue where most of the food shops were replaced by boutiques, especially those selling shoes. She looked down at her own feet and frowned. Lucius had insisted on a complete transformation and barely agreed to let her keep her old clothes in the shopping bag she now held. Part of her – a very small part – liked the attention and the lavish spending, but mostly the episode had annoyed her. She had justified it to herself with a hope that she might coax him into sharing some of that promised information, but nothing had come of that.

And though he had never quite said anything offensive – at least, not on that particular day – he was always managing to insult her. His insistence that they visit Dior said that he was embarrassed to be seen in public with her as she usually dressed. His surprise at actually tolerating – nay, enjoying – her company said that he had expected her to bore him to tears. His compliments on her intellect seemed to highlight what he saw as the deficiencies of her friends.

Her feet started aching when she was less than halfway back to her flat, which only served to sharpen her resentment at Malfoy's sudden intrusion into her life. She stopped in the middle of the street to remove the strappy shoes and slip on her worn sandals with cracked brown leather and soles moulded to her feet.

"Much better," she breathed. The headmistress could talk about maintaining a 'rapport' with the man, but that did not mean that she had to accept insulting gifts from him. She made a resolution to return the clothes to him as soon as possible. In fact, she knew where he lived and could probably stop over there before returning home. It was not on her way, but it would only take a quarter of an hour or so to reach it via the metro.

Wearing comfortable shoes and having thus made up her mind, Hermione could feel her irritation slipping away, replaced by the mellow satisfaction of a warm evening bearing no pressing responsibilities. A little ways down the avenue, she could see a metro stop. It was not on the correct metro line but a mere two stops away from it. She could have walked that distance, but with her resolution in mind, she was impatient to carry it out.

Hot, stale air and overripe odours greeted her as she descended underground. An eclectic crowd filled the tunnels, some hurrying to their destinations and others playing music in the corners for change. The train was so full that she was forced to stand close between harried, sweaty strangers. Out of consideration for her fellow passengers, she never smoked on the metro and wished they would return the favour by minimising the amount cologne they wore and increasing their usage of antiperspirant.

She returned to the surface in time to see the last rays of the sun and a fiery sunset where buildings did not block out the sky. It was only when she began climbing the stairs to his room that she realised that her plan had not allowed her an opportunity to change out of the clothes she was going to leave at his door. With a sigh, she turned around to head back to the lobby to search out a toilet where she could change. Finally back in her normal attire, she started once more up the stairs and plodded her way to the fourth floor.

She looked out in the hall, nervously at first, then walked over to his room and paused. Was she really going to do this? What sort of statement was she trying to make here anyway?

"Just do it," she muttered and dropped the Dior bag with a loud rustle. There. At that moment, her mobile ring. It scared her out of her wits, causing her to jump and then curse. An unfamiliar number, this time French, appeared on the little screen.

"Allo?"

"Ma chère fille, what are you doing?"

Anger resurged through her tired body at the sound of his amused voice and the warm tide that swept through her. 'Dear girl' indeed. "I'm not your 'chère fille' Mr. Malfoy, and I'm not your mistress. I can't accept these things you bought me."

A long pause followed her outburst, and Hermione became increasingly and uncomfortably aware of the strangeness of the situation: two people talking on telephones, close enough to speak face-to-face if not for the door separating them.

"Very well," he said at last in a much cooler tone. "I understand. Forgive me for having offended you."

Click. Well.

An air-conditioned breeze brushed her skin, and she shivered. While it seemed unbelievable that she had actually hurt his feelings – that he possessed any feelings to hurt – she nonetheless felt uneasy and vaguely guilty. No, that was ridiculous. She had insulted his vanity, his pride… a high sin when a Malfoy was the victim. Or if he really was affected, he could add it to the list of reasons he hated Mudbloods. To wit, they were:

1) A disgrace to the name of wizardkind

2) Inferior Muggle-born spawn

3) Corrupting influences on the children

4) Miserable ingrates who did not appreciate high fashion

She returned to her flat in a pensive mood which continued as she prepared and ate supper. Regretfully, she fended off invitations from her flatmates to go out with them. She had class early the next day and needed her sleep. They left and came back less than half an hour later with clinking shopping bags and declarations that they were too poor to go out and had instead decided to bring the party to the flat.

At their begging, she relented and drank of mug of the cheap wine they had purchased and smoked and played cards with them, nursing her single drink as they poured and re-poured. Their friendly banter was soothing after Malfoy's dry – if sharp and occasionally funny – conversation and subsequent coldness. It was also a relief to speak French after a full day in the capital of French speaking nothing but English. They pressed her to stay longer, but finally she tore herself away to finish her nightly routine and fall into bed.


	7. All So Unexpected

A/N: Two updates in a (holiday) weekend! Gasp! Here's my penance for offering such a short chapter yesterday. Funny note – a couple of times when my French stylistics class was dragging more than usual, I actually wrote out the French conversation bits in French (quite a lot of the early chapters I wrote in European geography class). I wonder how grammatically incorrect they were. But I'm starting an internship here pretty soon, so while I'll do my best to stick with weekly updates, I can't guarantee them.

Enjoy (and review)!

ON TO

Chapter Seven:

The school week passed without any sign of life from Malfoy. Hermione took this to mean that he was getting along and managing to amuse himself without her help. So much the better, she told herself, although she was annoyed that he never had provided her with any useful information. Oh well – perhaps he would repay his debt on the occasion that (God forbid) they met in battle and she found herself at his mercy. They headmistress would not be happy to learn that Hermione had lost track of him, but the latter saw no reason to enlighten her anytime soon.

What was more, she had new troubles costing her sleep. Ever since the day she had saved Malfoy's life, horrific nightmares had plagued her slumber. The content – murder, torture, obscene Dark rituals – was monstrous enough, but the truly disturbing aspect was the graphic clarity with which she lived it all and the thread of similarity that ran through them. Always, she was Bellatrix Lestrange, thinking her dark, lunatic thoughts in the midst of the horror. Hermione tried drugs from the chemist and alcohol to deaden her sleep, but the dreams kept coming.

Early Saturday morning, she awoke from another nightmare in a panic she could not explain, too alert to fall back asleep but still grainy-eyed and exhausted. She was sure that Lucius was hurt or dead somewhere beyond her reach. Heart-stopping visions of him prostate in a hospital bed or stiller yet filled her mind until she truly thought she was going insane. No matter what rational reassurances she told herself, the mental images flooded her brain. He was badly hurt, she was certain, all alone in this impersonal metropolitan, and she had no way to find him.

No, there was an easy way to check up on him. She dialled his hotel number and requested to be connected to his room. The phone rang, but no one answered. The hotel answerphone picked up, and Hermione left a short message, fearing what she might say if she lost control of herself. After that, she could not fall back asleep, so she rose to make herself a cup of tea and smoke a fag. Her hands shook a little at first, but eventually the sight of the early morning sun illuminating the little garden beneath her window calmed her nerves.

She dozed, and when she awoke from her dream-free nap, she felt rather more like herself. She was returned enough to her senses to be irritated at the stupidity of falling asleep on the flammable window seat cushions with a lit fag in her hand. At her side, nestled between those cushions, sat her mobile. She pondered it a decided to wait a while longer before calling him again. If she did not hear from him by evening, she might stop by and reassure herself that he was alive and well. A breakfast consisting of strong tea, yoghurt, and a day-old pastry made her feel even better, and she spent the large part of the daylight hours in a park, lying flat on her stomach and reading the latest reports from the Order.

If she glanced at her mobile more often than usual, she managed to concentrate regardless on her task and did not begin giving into worry again until dusk. She had tried his room every couple of hours, always hanging up when the answerphone clicked on. Of course he had the right to come and go as he pleased… and what would she say if she did find him? She returned to her flat and found continuous excuses to procrastinate that visit while part of her wanted to run straight to his hotel. She felt scared and silly and stubborn and tried to reason with herself and got nowhere doing so.

Full dark came, and her flatmates left for a party when she squared her shoulders and set out to find Lucius. Stupid git, she thought, dragging me all over the city and driving me half insane – not to mention his psychotic sister-in-law and whatever side effect nightmares carrying her wand gave me. Without stopping at the reception desk, she strode up the stairs, too impatient to wait for the lift, and headed to his room.

A tall, broad-shouldered man came down the corridor in her direction, his build so like Malfoy's that she thought she felt her heart and breath cease functioning until he stepped into the light and she could make out his face. Not even close. And there was no reason she should have been affected so strongly by the idea that it might have been him.

She knocked and waited, to no avail. For a full ten minutes, she stood there knocking and waiting, before she gave up and left back down the stairs. She was suddenly exhausted and wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in her cosy bed. She knew that the smart thing to do at this moment would be to ask the desk clerk if he knew anything about the occupant of room 414, but she found herself strangely hesitant to do so. Maybe she would come back and ask tomorrow. But what if he had been transported to a hospital and someone at the hotel knew which one? Her stomach roiled as she left, and she had to steady herself on a streetlight.

The nearest metro stop was very close, but the thought of all that hot, smelly air and those hot, smelly passengers made her feel sick. She was too tired to walk back home, so she decided to treat herself a taxi, rare extravagance. She climbed in and told the cabbie her address, luxuriating in the decadent sensation of ordering someone to take her home and the vanilla-scented air of the car. No limousine had ever felt so good, she was sure.

"May I smoke?" she inquired in French and could not help smiling at the driver's conspiratorial grin.

"We're not supposed to allow smoking, but you seem distressed. Open a window, and I won't tell anyone."

"Thank you very much." Paris whizzed past her as she sat and blew smoke into the mild air, enjoying the Saturday night lights and crowd.

The taxi slowed as it neared her flat, leaving her feeling a bit deflated. She was too poor to order the driver to take a turn around the city, so it was back to reality. She pulled colourful euro notes from her purse, threw the extinguished fag out the open window, and handed the money to the cabbie with an insistence that he keep the change. It was not until she scooted over to the side of the car parked by the garden that she noticed a familiar figure standing just outside. Her heart quickened. It couldn't be…

She could not puzzle out how to work the door handle for a moment and, incredibly, felt a tear come to her eyes as she struggled. This was so stupid. There was absolutely no reason for her fingers to be so clumsy, and it wasn't even him outside. It was impossible, and…

The handle gave under her frantic fingers. She looked out the window and caught her breath. It was him, sound as ever, smiling down at her with a most uncharacteristic expression. As she opened the door and set one foot on the ground, an elegant hand offered itself to help her out of the car. Her heart beat wildly as she took it and felt its strength when it closed on hers. He pulled a little harder than she had expected, and the strange magic of the moment was spoiled as she nearly fell atop him.

Spoiled, or so she thought for an agonizing moment before a new boldness seized hold of her. She had experienced this kind of recklessness a few other times in her life – the instance that came immediately to mind was when she had punched Draco Malfoy in the face, to the delight of her friends and no small shock of her own. But this time she did not hit anyone. This time, a man she'd been hunting for desperately had appeared on her doorstep, looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

So naturally, when he pulled her from the cab a little too hard, she did not resist but stepped even closer, and, noting the startled expression that crossed his face, kissed him full on the mouth. He did not respond at first, but neither did he pull away, and soon he tentatively kissed her back. She did not think she had ever seen Lucius do anything tentatively, but there it was. They pulled back at the same instant, and each noticed that the other was wearing an expression rather like the dazed look of a lightning strike survivor.

"Er, I'm afraid I'm a little sleep-deprived," Hermione said at last. "Not that I'm not… relieved to see you. I just- I didn't mean to-" To trip and fall on a Death Eater's _lips_? To kiss a married man twice her age? To have anything to do with Lucius Malfoy?

He interrupted her babbling. "And to imagine that for the longest time I was labouring under the illusion that sleep deprivation makes people bad-tempered."

A joke, or at least a quip. Good. That was a good sign. Now if only she could cast a memory charm without a wand…

"Just delusional. What I mean is, not that someone would have to be nutters to, well… just that I didn't sleep well last night, and I woke up with the dead certainty that you were dying in a gutter somewhere, and then there you were, and I- I didn't think, I was so relieved, and-"

"Do stop apologising," he said with a slight grimace. He pressed two fingers against his temple. "It isn't like you. It's… servile."

That made Hermione blink, and she drew a deep breath. "Right. We're both adults, we can discuss this in a rational manner." She nodded, trying to convince herself that she was at that moment a rational adult. A glance around the garden entrance to her flat seemed to restore her to her senses.

"What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you weren't speaking to me." Now that was hardly the action of a rational adult, she thought a bit smugly, ignoring me because he was mad.

"I was occupied with finding a new lodging, as you suggested. I did not return to my room until tonight, when the desk clerk informed me that a young lady had called my room repeatedly. I attempted to return your call, but you did not respond."

The metro, she thought. She must have lost reception underground.

"So you came here."

He shrugged. How he managed to look so nonchalant, she could not fathom. "You sounded upset." Then, lest she mistake his arrival for personal concern, he added, "I wondered if the Dark Lord had descended on Paris."

"Oh. Well, I'm…" She paused, trying to collect her thoughts and as she did, scrounged up a cigarette and a lighter from her bag. "Would you like one?"

A ghost of a smile flickered over his face. "I recall that they lost their appeal as soon as I came of age." He shook his head.

The image of an adolescent Lucius Malfoy made her smile around her cigarette. He probably looked much like Draco did now, but it was still difficult to imagine. Oh God, she had just kissed Draco's _father_. No, don't think about that.

"They hooked me young. I suppose it was the only way I could think of to rebel against my parents. They're dentists; they'd have a fit if they saw me now." She took a drag. "God, that feels better." As she spoke, she recalled that she had never quite gotten the hang of swearing like a witch. She supposed she still sounded like a Muggle at times to wizards who swore by Merlin and the gods, especially right after talking about her dentist family.

After a few seconds of watching her in silence, Malfoy sighed. "That looks wonderful. I fear you'll corrupt me yet."

She laughed at the idea and slid another fag from the pack. "No magic," she warned as she held it out. "If there is anyone in this city searching for you, the most minor spell could signal your presence. We have to do this the Muggle way."

He plucked the cigarette from her fingers and examined it for a little while before placing it between his lips. Hermione struck her lighter and held it while he inhaled deeply. Pale smoke drifted from his mouth when he exhaled and spoke again.

"That there is one of the Dark Lord's servants here is certain, but you're mistaken in your assumption that they are searching solely for me." He took another drag. "In fact, I'm quite sure that you are now his main quarry. I'm merely a disgraced turncoat; you killed his favourite and disappeared with his former second in command."

"I didn't kill her!"

He chuckled, apparently amused at her ire. "We are the only two witnesses to that fact. What other conclusion could one draw? Bellatrix was sent to punish me. Whoever found her would have seen that she was felled by the killing curse without a mark, yet blood stained the carpet, the walls, and the bathroom. The natural assumption is that she was interrupted while dealing with me and was killed before she knew what was happening.

"Of course," he added thoughtfully, "they will be wondering how you were capable of casting the killing curse. Perhaps the Dark Lord will desire a meeting with you."

A look of revulsion crossed her face. He would want a meeting with her? Not only was the thought of coming face to face with Voldement abhorrent, it was also terrifying. She was sure he would not let her get away merely with dying.

"You found me once." She spoke haltingly, and her voice shook a little. "Do you… do you suppose they will too?"

He took another slow drag, but before he could respond, a small group of her flatmates hurried outside.

"Héra!" one of them called.

She turned and forced a smile to her face. Bad timing, but it wasn't their fault.

Malfoy looked down at her, eyebrows lifted. "Hera?"

"Comme la déesse," she replied. Her flatmates, mostly French, had given her the nickname, after the Greek goddess, because they could not pronounce her very English name.

Three young people, two women and one man, kissed Hermione on the cheeks and regarded Malfoy with undisguised curiosity.

"Who's this?" one of the young ladies asked him in very informal French.

Oh dear. Hermione had not thought about how she might introduce Malfoy to others because she had never planned for the necessity of introducing him to anyone. She had not even planned to appear with him in public.

"This is my-" her mind raced and settled on a very neutral word. "friend, Monsieur Malfoy. He's, er, on holiday. M. Malfoy, this is Flore, Edmée, and Olivier, my

flatmates."

"You don't sound very sure," said Olivier, laughing.

She swallowed and didn't say anything. Luckily, Lucius stepped in at that moment.

"It's true that our… relationship is a bit unsure. You see, she's obviously very pretty, her intelligence never fails to amaze me, and she's quite engaging, but unfortunately, we are supposed to hate each other," he finished in what sounded like a regretful tone.

Hermione barely stopped herself from bursting into incredulous laughter. She was engaging? They were supposed to hate each other? Well, that last part was true, but the way he put it, they belonged in a romance novel or a Shakespearean drama.

Flore gasped. "That's terrible! Why do people want you to hate each other? You two look so good together."

"That's very nice of you to say," he replied. "It's a long and… rather stupid story. It isn't worth explaining. But where are my manners? I'm enchanted to meet all of you." He never addressed Hermione in that tone… not that she wanted him to, she reminded herself.

Flore, an olive-skinned beauty with an incongruous sprinkling of freckles, stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheeks. Edmée, a much shyer girl, followed suit, blushing brightly. For his part, Olivier extended a hand, and Malfoy shook it. Hermione wondered if he had been so cordial with Muggles in his life.

"Your friend?" Flore proceeded to ask with a smile. "Edmée saw you from her window and called me over immediately. You seem to be very good friends."

"Flore!" Edmée exclaimed.

Olivier shook his head. "My friends sadly lack hospitality. Ariane cooked for a party tonight, but it was cancelled. Now we have food for twenty-some people. You have to come and eat some, or seafood aroma will linger for days."

"Sounds charming," Malfoy said with a disarming smile. "Shall we, Mademoiselle Granger? What about you three?"

Flore spoke up before anyone else could answer. "We were going to a party, but I know the host, and he's very dull. We'd much rather stay and meet your friend, Héra."


	8. Memories and Revelations

A/N: I think I've replied to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, except **Claribel**, who I couldn't find on so I'll just thank her (?) right now for her kind words. Urk, I've been trying to upload this chapter for HOURS now. Yay for cooperating!

I love reviews of all kinds, except flat-out mean ones, and I have not received any of those yet (or possibly ever)! Thank you again and again to everyone who's left a word or twenty in the nice review box. And, okay, so I think part of this chapter might slightly contradict what I wrote in response to one review, but I swear, it's not a usual state for her. What can I say, it was a party.

Finally, this chapter is kinda filler, but the next is full of action! I promise!

ON TO

Chapter Eight:

Hermione squashed a flare of jealousy that reared when she noticed how Flore was looking at Lucius. Well, at least she would not have to worry about her flatmates disapproving of her… friendship with him. Not that she cared what they thought of Malfoy. But really, the fluttering eyelashes were a bit much.

It was a festive atmosphere that evening, good food and surprisingly good wine. Although everyone present was younger than Lucius, he charmed and conversed and general made all her flatmates a little in love with him. But she was having too much fun to complain much, even to herself.

Ariane, a natural hostess, refilled everyone's plates until they protested and their glasses even when they did. To her delight, Hermione saw a faint blush creep into Malfoy's ivory pallor.

"So tell us you met our Héra," Flore demanded at one point of Lucius. Hermione decided that she wasn't so bad after all, just a little flirt who was making a little fool of herself.

Malfoy swirled his wine in his glass for a moment in a very French manner before answering. His grey eyes met Hermione's, and a smile flitted across his face.

"I'm sorry to say that I was very rude to our dear girl. I was plotting to do something quite evil and acted in a shameful manner towards her and her friends."

Hermione's good mood slipped a little as she remembered the moment he was about to describe. She recalled being twelve years old, defiant and a little scared of the imposing man with cold features and a colder voice. Draco usually seemed a little petty little boy to her, but at the moment, he was heir to a legacy of evil and death, epitomized by his father.

Frightened though she was, Hermione had known her own worth even at that age and glared back at the pair, ignoring the heat that rose in her cheeks. She had never forgotten the feeling that Malfoy the Elder had been looking especially at her, a bookish little girl of so-called inferior ancestry. No, he never would let her forget exactly who he was, and after some initial ire that he had brought up that episode at all, she was glad for it. God forbid she ever forgot that.

"I remember clearly the moment when I saw her for the first time. She was very young, but the pretty young woman she would become was apparent, especially in her dark eyes, full of fire. I already knew that she was clever – my son was extremely jealous of her and her friends and harped about her constantly – but I had no idea how audacious she was. I believe her eyes positively glittered as she glared at me."

He leaned in to address solely her, dropped his voice to a whisper, and unexpectedly switched to English. "Only the very brave and the very foolish look at me like that. I have not yet puzzle out which you are."

"And you fell in love on the spot!" Flore declared.

Lucius chuckled and raised his voice back to a conversational volume. "As I said, she was very young at the time. It was a long time before I came to respect her for the formidable woman she is. As for love…"

Hermione tried desperately to look casual, but it was hard when her lungs refused to contract and expand and her brain froze. This was stupid. They barely knew each other. He was twice her age. Most importantly, he was a ruthless bigot and murderer. She stared into her wine glass as if the secret to immortal life lay therein. It didn't, of course. She and her friends had discovered _that_ in their first year at Hogwarts.

"You'll understand that that is a very personal matter," he finished with his cat-like smile.

Ariane bustled in with a plate of berries and cheese for dessert, breaking with her chatter the strange mood that had threatened to fall over Hermione. She concentrated on eating the tart cherries and gracefully spitting out the pits. What had possessed her to kiss that man, and worse, why did that nosy Flore have to witness it?

Eventually, people began drifting off to their separate rooms. She could not have said how many bottles they had polished off or how much she had helped in that, but she was definitely a little woozy, not to mention fatigued from the troubled sleep she had suffered lately. Playing the gentleman as he had been all evening, Lucius offered her his arm when she stood and walked her up the stairs to her room. She felt as though her face were on fire, conscious of the smirks and giggles her flatmates were exchanging behind her back.

"Thank you," she said when they reached her door, proud that she had kept her footing all that way. "I really am glad that I found you," she mumbled as she wiggled her key in the lock.

"As I recall, it was I who found you, much to my surprise."

"Yeah… okay." She turned to face him after opening the door. "Would you like to step inside? There's…" She paused to peer down the hallway, hoping no one could hear her. "There's something I'd like to ask you. In private." She resolutely did not look at the smirk on his face.

"Of course, Mademoiselle. I am at your service."

Although her ability to coordinate her limbs had somewhat escaped her, the wine had not affected her so much that she forgot her manners. She offered him a cup of tea, and when she saw that she only had three bags remaining, was glad when he refused and asked instead for a glass of water. After filling the kettle, she filled a clean glass and handed it to him.

"I'm sorry about Flore," she said after a pause. "No respect for anyone's privacy." She could feel heat rush into her cheeks as she recalled all the questions her flatmate had posed.

"Anyway," she continued, swallowing hard and fixing her eyes on her desk. "You should have told them that you're married… well, not that it might've made such a difference." Flore _was_ French after all; she would probably think it was exciting.

He laughed. "You're clever but not especially subtle." She could hear him approaching and then sitting on the window seat where he edged into her peripheral vision. "You know nothing of my marriage, of my relationship with my wife, yet you're bothered by the idea that you kissed a married man. I might have shouted and hit her and forced my affections on her when I was not seducing her friends and family, but none of that matters because you like to play by the rules."

Despite herself, she looked up to see a small smile dancing at the corners of his lips. Finally, she had caught him in an outright mistake; he, along with most of the Wizarding World, remained in total ignorance of all the times she had bent and broken the rules at school to accomplish a goal. Like Harry, she got away with it, but unlike Harry, she was rarely even suspected. "I like to preserve the appearance of playing by the rules, Mr. Malfoy." And let him make of that what he would.

"I assure you, the idea of kissing a Death Eater – murderer and probably worse – not to mention Draco's father, is much more repugnant than the fact that you're married." It was fairly difficult to pull off wounded dignity when sloshed and half-asleep, but she found she could manage.

His smile faded as he leaned in closer to her. "Repugnant, am I? That's very strange, coming from an intoxicated young lady who had invited me up to her room at this late hour. As for the other…" He pulled his wedding ring from his finger and set it on the desk with a _bang_.

She gulped again and returned her attention to the kettle, now releasing pale puffs of steam. "I didn't mean… that isn't why I asked you here." She grasped the kettle handle tightly as she continued. "It's these nightmares I've been having since… you know." She blamed the momentary tremor in her voice on her reduced self-control brought on by the wine.

Her hands shook as she poured the hot water into a cup and over a tea bag. "They're horrible. It's like I'm her, re-living everything she's done. I can never remember the specifics when I wake up, but I know that much." As she spoke, she dunked the tea bag in a failed effort to keep a casual demeanour. She paused, took a couple of deep breaths, and looked up again. Her eyes watered, partly from the steam but mostly from what she did recall of the nightmares.

"I'm afraid to fall asleep, and I was hoping… maybe you knew what was causing this and how to make it stop?" A glint of gold caught her eye, and she dropped her gaze for a moment to inspect his wedding band.

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger," he began, and the wholly unexpected compassion in his voice nearly caused Hermione to lose all composure. As it was, she focused her attention on her tea in one hand and his ring, which she picked up in the other.

"While it's possibly that Bellatrix cast a spell on her wand of which I am not aware, it doesn't seem likely. In truth, I have no idea what could be causing these dreams of yours."

Hermione suddenly hated herself for all the weakness she had shown that day, beginning with her unwarranted panic attack, to that _stupid_ kiss, to excess alcohol consumption, and now this. In her current state, she could almost believe that he did give a damn. Quickly, she changed the subject, though she had been the one to instigate it in the first place.

"What am I supposed to be seeing?" she asked a little sharper than she had intended. She steadied herself and continued in a more civil tone. "It looks normal to me… nice, but normal."

'Nice' was an understatement. It was a thick gold band with a row of minute alternating diamonds and sapphires on the top and bottom edges with a design she could almost make out carved over and over in the gold. She squinted. It looked like a fleurdelys, hardly surprising, considering his very French sounding name, Malfoy.

The colours and motif intrigued her. Before he could answer, she continued her query. "And what…" She set it in her palm to gauge its weight. "What does it mean?"

"As I'm sure you're aware, the fleur de lys is one of the oldest symbols of the French nobility, of which the Malfoy family-" only he pronounced the name a little differently so it came out _mal foi_. Bad faith. "- has always played a prominent role. Blue lilies on a field of white." That explained the jewels, then. "Look on the inside."

She tilted it until the light struck the inner side of the ring. To her amazement, she saw what appeared to be miniscule printing running all over the inside edge, far too small for her to read.

He told her a spell, which she repeated as she examined the orderly scratches. She nearly fell over in shock when a pool of light gathered inside the ring and shot out to a field of pure white in front of her. An unseen hand traced a long list of names in bright blue Gothic print, each pair separated from the next the next by a fleur de lys. Malfoy followed Malfoy, though rarely she found a pair of names where neither party bore the name, presumably where a daughter or near relative inherited the ring. But the name always returned. There were a couple of names which appeared singly on the list. The names rose slowly, until the list nearly reached the ceiling and ended just in front of Hermione's eyes.

_Lucius Malfoy_

She glanced over at the man himself. "It stops," she said and immediately felt stupid for it.

"Clever girl. Truly the brightest witch of her age. I shudder to think what that signifies for the rest of your generation."

At this point, she remembered her tea, and instead of returning insult for insult, took a sip. "Why?"

His eyes left hers to gaze the glowing azure letters. "You doubtless realised that the ring carries a record of every marriage it has sealed, every hand it has graced. My father bore it, as did his father before him and so on." He fell silent for a moment, probably overwhelmed with awe at this monument to his family's longevity.

Hermione hoped the sensation would pass quickly – she was finding it more and more difficult to keep her eyes open. She wanted to ask about the single names on the list but thought she could figure that out on her own. The ring must have sealed those marriages, as Malfoy put it, and then they must have dissolved, leaving only the bearer's name on the list. She assumed that only deliberate separations, not unions broken when one spouse died, showed up as single names.

"Why, I cannot say. Perhaps she believed the accusations of treason or was pressured by her sister and the Dark Lord… perhaps she found somebody new who could stay with her… perhaps she finally tired of waiting." He stared a little while longer into the air, then shook himself. "She isn't dead, and for whatever reason, she has dissolved our marriage bond."

Hermione could read neither his voice nor his expression. She wondered if this divorce – if that was the correct term… somehow it did not seem to fit – was public knowledge or if he had just confided to her a potentially scandalous piece of gossip.

"Oh, well…" 'Thank you' seemed vastly inappropriate. "I should get to bed." She stood with admirable steadiness and waited as he also rose. "There's a taxi stand a few, er, hundred metres down the street to your left when you go out." It was late, but it was Paris on Saturday night. He would have no trouble finding transportation home.

She dropped her eyes to her tea, still clutched in her hands. "I'm glad you're all right." For now, at least. If he was right, if Death Eaters were chasing her, he was, sad to say, her best chance of survival at the moment. He knew them better than any Order member could.

"I must say," he began in almost a cheerful tone, "I'm not thrilled at the prospect of wandering the streets at night." She almost reminded him that she had known him to do just that several times before, but kept quiet. He glanced out the window at the garden and the street beyond, now illuminated orange.

"I find I'm quite reluctant to do so. Your friends are already convinced that we're carrying on a torrid affair."

She was glad she had not taken a sip of tea just then or she would have choked and spit it out.

"If I leave now, they'll merely imagine that we had a disagreement or that I had to sneak back to my wife before dawn." He even grinned at her.

"Yes, I'm quite sure. I'd much rather stay here tonight." Without so much as a by-your-leave, of course. She would never admit it, but part of her was relieved that he was to stay with her. Not for… that, but she had wondered if she might sleep better knowing she were not alone. Well, not that she planned to actually share a bed with him. Good God, no.

"As my guest," she said with a heavy sigh, "I insist you take the bed. I should sleep out here anyway, so I'm near a source of water when I wake up."

The list of names hung in the air and cast an eerie light over Malfoy's face. She caught herself staring and turned abruptly, without a word to gather blankets and pillows to soften the loveseat.

When she went to extinguish the light on the main room, she noticed that Malfoy had not retrieved his wedding band from the desk. She wondered what that meant. "Doesn't mean anything," she muttered. It looked much smaller, sitting here, just a sparkly trinket.


	9. A New Arrangement

A/N: My muse has been a bit difficult recently, and I've started an internship, so updates might become rather slow in a couple of chapters. But don't worry, I WILL continue this through the end! Thanks as always to all my lovely reviewers… you all really make my day.

ON TO

Chapter Nine:

Lying on the loveseat, annoyed that Malfoy had not offered much protest at her proposed arrangements, Hermione tossed and turned, horribly tired now but too uncomfortable and afraid of what slumber would bring to drift off to sleep. She would kick off the blanket, smouldering one minute, only to pull it back, shivering, the next.

Her head already hurt in anticipation of the following morning (more like afternoon at this rate). She contemplated getting up for another cup of tea, but her fatigued body refused to entertain the notion. Her thoughts became muzzy and confused as weariness won over discomfort. Whether she actually slept then or not she was never certain, but the next thing she knew, a noise both familiar and highly unexpected – and terrifying, in this context – jolted her back to wakefulness.

_Crack_

Someone had just Apparated. For a moment she wanted to groan, imagining that Lucius had either somehow discovered a way to Apparate without a wand or snatched a wand. Before a sound passed her lips, she realised that the more likely explanation was that someone had just entered her flat, not left it.

A rustle of cloth in the direction of her bedroom – she did not think the noise came from inside her bedroom but could not be sure, as she had decided to leave the separating door open – confirmed her second guess. She did not dare move, but if she wanted to save herself (okay, and Malfoy) from an assassin's wand, she would have to get moving. As slowly and silently as she could, Hermione raised herself up to her elbows to peer over the edge of the arm of the loveseat.

That simple movement seemed to stretch out over an eternity as she waited with tensed muscles for the intruder to hear her and fire a curse at her, against which she had absolutely no defence. Finally, she saw a robed figure advancing stealthily through the door toward her bed, wand at the ready.

She had no time to think of a clever plan or even to steel herself against the danger which lay before her. Instead, she hoped there was still water in her kettle and launched herself toward her desk. She switched the dial to the On setting and ran to duck behind the sink. The intruder spun at the sound of footsteps and strode in her direction. So Lucius was safe – alive, at least – for the moment because she had saved him once again. Now it was his turn. If she were very lucky, the intruder might have not approached her bed close enough to see that it was occupied.

"You can't hide in this miserable hole for long, Mudblood!" proclaimed the man, loud enough for her to hear it but maybe too quiet, she feared, to wake Malfoy. She would just have to get his attention, preferably without letting her attacker know what she was doing. Above her, resting on the small countertop, sat a plate she had not yet got around to washing. Taking a deep breath, she stood, grabbed the dish, and flung it like a Frisbee at the man, now far too close for comfort.

He barely needed to lean to one side to avoid the missile and laughed again when it crashed into a wall and shattered. "That one ought to be good for a laugh when I report back to the Council." By this time, he had reached the sink and could aim his wand at Hermione no matter where she scurried. "And here we all were so ruddy impressed with you." He pointed his wand at her, perhaps to cast a killing curse and finally rid the Dark Lord of this most recent thorn, or maybe he would amuse himself to a bit longer, try to get a bit of useful information out of her before carrying out his master's orders.

Whatever he hand planned was interrupted by a noise behind him. Hermione almost laughed herself at the expression on his face just before he turned to face this new threat. He had no time to utter a single syllable before Lucius swung something at him. The man threw an arm up to protect his head and then shrieked at the fleshy thud and dull crack of impact.

Hermione's stomach turned, but she repressed the nausea and hurried back to her desk, where steam was rising from the kettle. The stranger fell forward on Lucius, who dropped his weapon and cursed. Somehow, the intruder had retained his grasp on his wand, and this time, when he raised it, Hermione was certain he would not bother with torture. She jerked the plug from the socket and took a couple of steps toward the two struggling men.

"Get back," she yelled, hoping Lucius would heed her words. Just as she had predicted, their would-be dispatcher turned by instinct in her direction as Malfoy scrambled away. She wrenched the lid off the kettle and heaved the boiling water at the intruder. As the other man howled, Malfoy tossed Hermione's discarded blanket over the man's head and clamped one arm around his torso, the other over his mouth.

From outside her door, Hermione heard exclamations and running footsteps. "Shit!" she hissed. "We have to get out of here before someone sees all this."

Lucius found the man's wand on the floor and hastened to drag Hermione alongside himself in a bruising grip, reciting the spell for a Side-Along Apparition just as the footsteps reached her door. The last thought she had before the spell seized them was relief that this would-be killer had not thought to ward his wand with the same kind of protective spell Bellatrix had used on hers.

When the dizziness subsided, she blinked and squinted at a sudden flood of light pouring from a low-hanging chandelier. Her vision cleared to present a wood-panelled room, pale enough to reflect most of the candle light so that the walls seemed to glow. Wooden furniture polished to a mirror sheen – chairs with cream-colored velvet seats and a side-table supporting a silver tray – sat pushed against the walls as if the owners expected guests. All in all, it looked quite luxurious, if rather modestly-sized.

Lucius let go of her arm and spoke before she could ask him a single question about where he had taken them and why. "We've just come calling on an old and rather… shabby Pureblood, ah, couple. You need not say a word when they come to greet us. I'll explain later, but I imagine most of what your wish to know will soon become obvious."

How reassuring. She pursed her lips and returned to her study of the room. Shabby? It looked nice enough to her… but upon closer inspection, the velvet padding _was_ unevenly faded and looked flat. The silver had begun to tarnish a good long time ago, and the pale walls darkened in spots, whether with stains or natural wear she could not say.

She had not progressed much beyond the walls when footsteps pounded above, then descended until they could be heard just beside this… salon, perhaps. One of two doors flew open to usher in two elderly men, one in a threadbare silk dressing gown and the other in a thick white robe.

"Monsieur Malfoy!" one of the men cried happily. "How wonderful to see you again and so unexpectedly!" He bowed to Hermione. "And your friend is most welcome, of course." The other man looked significantly less thrilled to see them and hovered silently near his companion.

"Marius is… not feeling well, I hope you will excuse him. We've been hearing all sorts of rumours, you know, about some very dark deeds, and your name has come up more than once. Oh don't worry, I never said a thing one way or another, but…"

Hermione sneaked a bemused glance at Lucius, only to see him nodding and occasionally offering a smile or chuckle in response to the rapid-fire French babble. A couple, he had said? Hermione realised that she had never heard any mention of such arrangements in the Wizarding World, though they were common enough in Muggle Britain, even legally recognised these days. She discovered her mind wandering and firmly pointed it back to the scene in front of her. Sleepy as she was, she doubted she would be able to concentrate on anything much longer. There were things she ought to worry about but could not find the energy to dwell on. 

"… long as you wish. Marius has been begging me to take us on a little holiday… and I've heard lovely things about Wizarding Marrakech. Doesn't that sound exotic? I understand they have some very interesting teas down there… you know I'm an Earl Grey man, but I should like to try something new before I die, what do you say?"

Malfoy was not actually expected to say anything, Hermione found.

"We'll leave first thing in the morning, and you two will have full run of the house. I insist – it's the least I can do for you, after all the kindness you've shown Marius and

myself. My, but you're quiet! I suppose you're both exhausted… you seem to have endured something dreadful just now, but I know better than to ask questions."

A grin broke out over his wrinkled face during his very brief pause to draw breath. "I take that back; I do have one question, simply unavoidable. Will it be one room or two? Not that I mean to imply anything, Monsieur Malfoy, of course not."

Lucius did not hesitate or bother to spare a glance for Hermione before answering his friend's inquiry. "Two, preferably near one another. After our ordeal tonight, I'm sure we will both sleep better knowing help is nearby."

He was right, but that did not mean he had to make it sound like she was afraid of the dark! She tried not to blush at what she prayed their host was _not _thinking and hoped she would see this room very soon, near another or not. Even the chairs were looking comfortable enough to sleep in at this point.

To his credit, he gave no sign of harbouring any such ideas. "Naturally, yes, perfectly understandable. You two wait here… there's brandy in the cabinet under the tray, if you like. I'm afraid we had no time to prepare anything more for your arrival. It's delightful to see you again, my good sir, an absolute joy."

When he left, Hermione was content to fall into the closest chair and enjoy the silence for a minute. Her questions, she decided, could wait until morning. All she wanted right now was a little peace and a long sleep.

Their host returned a few minutes later and announced with many a verbal flourish that their bedrooms were ready. She still had not caught his name, but then again, neither of these men knew hers. Marius remained as silent as she was and looked just as fatigued and considerably more annoyed. She wondered why this verbose man, who seemed so genuinely _nice_ – warm, friendly, hospitable – had anything to do with a Malfoy, none of whom were known for possessing any of these qualities.

He left Lucius and Hermione at their rooms, bidding them a final farewell, goodnight, and assurance that his house and everything therein (including a house elf) were theirs as long as they needed.

She tried not to gaze too longingly at her bedroom door or let her eyelids droop too heavily as Lucius and his friend exchanged a few polite parting words. To distract her brain from realising just how exhausted she was, she directed her attention once more to Marius, still at his companion's side, engaged for the most part in glaring at Lucius, sparing a sharp glance from time to time for Hermione or an impatient one for his partner. She did not even know if 'partner' was the right word.

Among other things, she made a mental note to ask Lucius what their host's name was and why he was so fond of the elder Malfoy – and hoped that the exact nature of the relationship of these two men would come up in that conversation. Since she had never heard anyone talk about any similar sort of relationship, she guessed it was not generally held to be a polite topic of discussion.

Finally, the two men departed, and Hermione felt free to yawn and rub her eyes. Good thing she was already dressed for bed and could not imagine how she had looked to Malfoy's friend… which raised about a dozen more questions which simply would have wait until morning.

She pointed a finger at Lucius. "This is only a temporary reprieve. When I wake up again, you'd better be ready to talk like him." She nodded in the direction in which their host had left. "I don't even know where to start. But for now… sleep. Good night." With that, she started heading toward the bedroom offered to her but stopped at the sound of his voice.

"Wait." He took a few steps and stopped a very short distance from her. Barely suppressing a tired sigh, she turned to face him. Even in her current fuzzy state of mind, she was struck by the colour of his eyes and the powerful lines of his face. An irreverent part of wanted to reach up and brush an errant strand of white-blond hair behind his ear… must be the sleep deprivation, she told herself. There will be no (further) touching of Lucius. It was hard to keep her eyes from those lips she had so recently kissed. Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!

He let a quiet moment pass before speaking again. "You were most impressive tonight. I believe I now owe you my life several times over."

A Malfoy owed her big time. She liked the sound of that, even if she was too modest to say exactly that.

"Oh, well, that's how these things go. I save your life, you save mine, I save yours again, you save me from a major police investigation."

He sounded quite serious when he replied. "I do not take any obligation so lightly. Indeed, you are complicating matters more than you know." He smiled a little, breaking the solemn mood. "But I can see that you're very near to collapsing here as we speak. Sleep well, Miss Granger. We will have ample time to discuss anything you wish." He inclined his head in a little bow – she could never tell if he was serious or not when he did that – and then disappeared into his own room.

She stared after him for a little while before sighing and entering her bedroom. She did not bother even to turn on a light before falling into bed and another nightmare.


	10. An Understanding

A/N: Nothing much to say this time… Read, enjoy, review!

ON TO

Chapter Ten:

The rich aromas of coffee and bacon awoke Hermione from another nightmare, wholly expected by now but no less horrifying for that. As usual, the last remnants of the dream fell away as she struggled awake, but she did so weak and shaking. Her strength slowly seeped back into her muscles as the tantalising smells drifting up to her calmed her taut nerves.

She threw back a tattered but wonderfully soft quilt and the sheet underneath to swing her legs down and push herself to her feet. It was quite a comfortable bed, with a dark wood frame and an intricately carved headboard. The pillows, she noted, were filled with tiny feathers, some of which poked through the pillowcase.

Hermione looked down at herself with a grimace. Her clothes showed the signs of an intense struggle followed by a night of restless sleep. "I don't suppose anyone thought to stock the wardrobe with a nice dressing gown or two," she muttered, eyeing the heavy piece of furniture. Probably not, but she might as well have a look. Like the bed frame, the wardrobe was a weighty Gothic thing, imposing but not so overdone that it passed the border into ridiculous.

She approached it with some trepidation and reminded herself of her host's countless reassurances that they could enjoy complete access to anything they could possibly want in the house, short of pawning it for a sack of Galleons – and he had not expressly forbidden even that.

Pulling open the wardrobe door was much easier than she had imagined from looking at it, but then, she _was_ back in the Wizarding World. To her great surprise and delight, a dozen or so dressing gowns greeted her, a rainbow of different colours, fabrics, and cuts. Wherever they were, the air was humid even at this morning hour, so she selected an icy blue article made of a feather-light material and looked to fall a little past her knees.

It felt divine to strip off the clothes she had worn for a full day now and slide the cool fabric over her body. A little more of her accumulated tension seemed to melt away as the whisper-soft dressing gown flowed down her thighs. It did not cling the way silk would have in this damp air but actually appeared to float a little. She twirled to watch it ripple on the breeze she generated.

The insistent aromas of breakfast finally led her out of her bedroom where she was met by a diminutive house elf. "Good morning, Miss," the elf squeaked as soon as she spied Hermione. "Nifti has prepared breakfast for Sir and Miss. Sir is already at table."

Like her master, Nifti possessed the gift of gab and chattered almost non-stop from Hermione's room to a bright kitchen with a small, round table illuminated by sunshine streaming in a pair of large windows. Lucius, staring out over a green expanse of lawn just outside, sat in a chair much like those she had seen when they had first arrived. He must have heard Nifti but continued to stare out the windows, still except for the hand which lifted a tiny espresso cup to his lips.

He wore a dressing gown of the same material as her own but dyed a rich brown like good coffee with a hint of milk. Sitting like that, he looked so _normal_. Nifti led her to the only other chair at the table, place already set with more dishes and utensils than she owned… which now sat abandoned at her apartment.

Oh God.

"Coffee," she managed as she fell into the proffered chair. "And… oh no." She buried her head in her hands, either uncaring or unaware that her hair came very near to tumbling into the steaming cup Nifti placed at her elbow.

"Be careful," Malfoy intoned over her heartfelt sighs. "The coffee is quite excellent, and I can't think your hair would do anything to improve the flavour."

In response, she moaned and took a sip, head still resting in her free hand. From the same position, she speared a few strips of bacon, scooped a spoon nearly deep enough to qualify as a ladle into what she took to be yoghurt (and was in fact _fromage blanc_, a similar French dairy concoction), and slid two pieces of toast all onto her plate. She took a mouthful of the fromage blanc, blinked, and sighed again.

"Please pass the honey," she mumbled, half into her hand and only lifted her head when it became clear that she posed a serious risk of sticking the honey spoon in her hair. The act of dripping the honey on her toast and fromage blanc seemed somewhat to restore her, and she looked almost cheerful as she brushed toast crumbs from her chin.

"Right," she said between mouthfuls, "first order of business – procuring some cancer sticks so neither of us has to suffer through nicotine withdrawal. I figure my mobile's a complete loss, just like my security deposit, but I _need_ my fags." While she was on the subject of items she had left behind at her flat, Lucius had left behind no small thing… but it was his own fault that he had lost his wedding band, probably for good now. She shivered.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, and in that simple gesture, all that he was came flooding back to her. That raised eyebrow universally denoted scepticism, but from this man, it also conveyed arrogance, condescension, and amusement at an inferior being. A quirk of the eyebrow, twist to his lips, and everywhere a kind of tension. He did not look ordinary anymore; he looked like Lucius Malfoy – and to her eternal consternation, she thought she preferred him this way. It was honest this way, no possibility of Hermione inventing excuses or constructing (God forbid) fantasies about showing this man the error of his ways and… what?

Delete that line of thought, she silently commanded and drank some more of her coffee. Absorbed as she was, she had missed part of what he had just said, very odd considering she had been staring fixedly at him the entire time.

"…questions you so desired to ask last night but could not over Edouard's endless natter?"

She had to think fast to recall what he had just said. Oh yes, he was asking her if a pack of fags was really her most important priority at the moment, more important than all the questions she had. Obviously, Lucius had never been addicted to mind-altering substances.

"Mr. Malfoy, I have one word for you." She pause both for dramatic effect and to eat a piece of bacon. "Nicotine. They say it's more addictive than heroin."

His smirk deepened into a sneer. "I'll take your word for it." He glanced over his shoulder into the kitchen at the house elf, engaged in one domestic chore or another and talking non-stop to herself under her breath. "Bring me parchment and everything I need to write and send a letter."

Well, he could have used a more polite tone and said please, but she felt almost absurdly relieved that he did not yell or throw anything or kick the creature. _Wait until a meal is a minute late or a degree too cold_. She remembered Harry's account of his encounters with Dobby and, once Malfoy and Dobby. Add house elf abuser to the litany of his crimes, she thought.

Lucius sipped his coffee and very neatly ate the remaining eggs on his place while Hermione tried not to spill anything down her front. Her hands shook a little, and she was certain that coffee first thing in the morning did not help her jitters. Nifti brought the writing material as Malfoy was touching a pristine white napkin to his lips.

And no 'thank you' for the elf, she noted.

The scratching sound of a nib scraping over the thick parchment was vaguely comforting after weeks of the silent ballpoint pens unknown in the Wizarding World. Why that should be, she had never really known, but the quill topped with an exotic blue and crimson feather signalled her return to the magical world which had been her home for so long now.

He folded the parchment into an envelope and sealed it with a blob of wax. He touched his ring finger, and his lips tightened. He reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and brought out a wand – presumably the property of their attacker – muttered something over the wax, some sort of sealing or safe passage charm, she guessed. Having thus finished the letter, Malfoy called the elf over again and instructed her to send it right away with her master's best owl.

"What's that for?" Hermione inquired with a nod at the departing elf.

"If the service at a certain establishment is as efficient as I remember, you'll have you answer in under an hour."

So he was going to be cryptic today, was he? One of these days… she tried to suppress her irritation and, with that goal in mine, ate her breakfast.

"You've already answered – or partly answered – one of my questions… who is this person who's allowing us to stay in his lovely home? Edward something?"

"Edouard Lefidèle and his partner Marius de la Collinerose. Edouard, you could say, is a devoted family friend, except I don't believe he truly cares anything for any member of my family, save myself. We were friends from a very young age; he comes from an ancient house verging on the brink of bankruptcy. But I have maintained relations with Edouard when a goodly portion of society chose otherwise."

"I suppose you kept up this childhood friendship out of the goodness of your heart?" Hermione asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

He looked a little surprised at her tone and did not snap back at her. "We both enjoy certain advantages from our friendship, yes, but that does not preclude a genuine affection between us."

That bemused expression smoothed over into his usual haughty look. "Do you believe me so heartless that I am incapable of or unwilling to sustaining authentic human relationships? I do _feel_, Miss Granger, as much as anyone, but unlike most of the world, I have not let myself become a slave to my emotions. I see no reason why my good judgement, my reason, and my emotions should not be in perfect accord."

Now the conversation was getting interesting. Unconsciously, Hermione shifted slightly to face him and leaned forward. "Are you saying that you've never had to decide between something you _thought_ was right and something else you _felt_ was right?" For a brief moment, she envied that kind of simplicity which never seemed to come with Good Guy territory.

"Of course I've had to make that kind of choice, but I do so only after careful deliberation as to what set of consequences I most desire."

She supposed that was what most people did most of the time, but it sounded so… clinical the way he put it. She repositioned herself again so that she faced him directly, set one arm on the table, and leaned even closer.

"Okay, granted. But still, you've never been swept away by anger or grief or passion, never had your brain… completely overruled by something else?"

He regarded her for several quiet seconds. "Have you?"

Her eyes narrowed. Now he was just avoiding giving her an answer. What a ridiculous question; she was no the one here who manipulated people like she breathed. She had hated and raged and loved and lost just like anyone.

She sat back in her chair and drank some coffee before responding. "I think I must have been overcome with something when I punched your son in the face," she said, a little too casually to convince even herself.

When he did not say anything but continued to look at her expectantly, she sighed. "And once… I was half out of my mind with fatigue – which isn't exactly an emotion – and half with relief, and… well, you were there." As she finished, she noticed how close to him she was sitting and scooted back into her chair. "Now it's your turn."

"I'm afraid I cannot truthfully lay claim to having spontaneously _assaulted_ anyone…" The stress he placed on that particular word encompassed both meanings. "…so it seems I must concede. Then again, there are some of my acquaintance who would consider my flight here a decision made in the heat of the moment."

Hermione paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth to regard Lucius with a perplexed expression. She set her spoon down and, again without realising she was doing so, leaned in close. "No, I don't think that counts. It was a decision you _had_ to make in a matter of seconds because that's precisely how much time we had between subduing a potential assassin and facing discovery with a _lot_ of awkward questions. I don't see how emotion entered into the picture at all; we needed to escape, and you knew of a discreet friend who's just thrilled anything you drop in for a visit."

His smile did not fade, but there was no longer a trace of amusement in his grey eyes. "That statement, ma chère, perfectly encapsulates the reason I made you the offer I did."

Though she did not have it in front of her – it must still be somewhere in her apartment, she supposed (oh dear God, her papers… all the Order materials… her paperwork for her job which she would never show up for again…) – she could have recited almost word for word the contents of that vexing message. That silly thing, she thought, must have started all this.

_Miss Granger,_

_I'm writing to offer my congratulations on the work I understand you're doing here now. Quite a change from all those adventures of which I used to hear countless incredible tales. _

_I should very much like to meet with you some day soon to discuss matters of mutual interest and advantage. I confess, I've been following your career for some now, and some friends of mine with whom I'm sure you're familiar have expressed a great desire to know you better. I'm sure you're surprised to read this, but I am convinced that we have much to offer one another in this sort of arrangement._

_Don't concern yourself with sending your reply – I will contact you again soon._

_Best,_

_LM_

The letter would look so _innocent_ to someone who did not know their respective histories. Behind his flowery words, she read hints of threats, bribery, even blackmail underpinning the repulsive offer that she form an "arrangement" of "mutual interest and advantage" with him and his friends.

Thinking back, she remembered how much he had stunned her by acting so charming for her own friends, but she should have recalled that damned letter. He was very skilled at this – hiding his disgust even for a Mudblood under an elaborate veneer of manners… as long as he had something to gain.

But what did he stand to gain now? Was he still labouring under the delusion that he would convert her to his cause, or was he trying to ingratiate himself at last with the side bound to win this war. Or perhaps he was civil to her friends out of respect for the obligation he felt he owed her? Or maybe he was just working as hard as he could to confuse the hell out of her, in which case he was succeeding nicely.

All this flashed through Hermione's mind while he spoke and then paused to gaze intently at her. She had a tendency to become lost in her thoughts, and this situation was no exception. When Lucius reached out a hand and continued speaking, she jumped in her seat.

"You're clever and quick to act when the situation demands alacrity," here he tapped her temple once, twice, "but even after everything you and your friends have endured, you're still laughably naïve." His long index finger slid slowly from her temple down her jaw and came to rest under her chin, tilting her head up so she was looking directly into his eyes.

"All this talk of 'we' and what 'we needed'. You're a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and I am a Death Eater. There is no 'we'. There never can be a 'we'. I acknowledge that I owe you a debt, but you should never forget that I will always act to my advantage before anyone else's."

His eyes flicked to the wand, now lying on the table between their two place settings. She pretended not to notice. "Should I come to the conclusion that it will benefit me to flee this place alone or to deliver you to the Dark Lord, I hope you know that I will do so."

A part of her – a very small and foolish part, she told herself severely – wanted to… well, to cry at hearing that. Stupid little girl that she was, she had thought that maybe, _maybe_, she could one day make him see reason, one day even… no, that was stupider still. She needed to focus very hard now and look like she was doing no such thing. As he finished, she dropped her eyes, hoping she looked sad and not like she was watching closely his every movement. There, he was reaching with his other hand, probably to remind her…

She twisted her head and bit the finger still under her chin as hard as she could. He actually screamed and seemed completely to forget about the wand. It would not last, his temporary distraction, but… there. She had it. Before he could react, she leapt to her feet to tower over him, wand in hand.

"You're right," she began, "about everything. I am clever, quick to act, and entirely too trusting. So give me a reason not to bind you where you sit and owl someone to come and collect you. I'm sure the Order can protect me from your friends now that I'm able to Floo or Apparate anywhere they deem necessary."

He smiled. It was the most pleased expression she had ever seen on his face. His perfect teeth gleamed, and the corners of his eyes crinkled a little. He looked… he looked like he had just won something wonderful and unexpected.

"And yet, occasionally I am proven to be grossly in error. Merlin, you're beautiful when you're angry." That last sentence she thought he said more to himself than to her. It was not the first time he had uttered such a sentiment. Well, flattery was not going to get him anywhere.

"If you have nothing more interesting to say-"

"As I see it," he continued as if she had not spoken, "you have two basic options before you. You can turn me over to your proper authorities, perhaps after an interrogation I would be almost sorry to miss, or you could turn this situation to our, ah, mutual interest and advantage by allowing me to begin paying my debt to you."

"I need specifics," she said simply, no longer in the mood to bandy words with him.

He inclined his head. "Of course. I propose that you force me to take an Unbreakable Vow-" her eyes widened "-to the effect of… an oath that I will not harm you, put in you in danger, however you wish to phrase it, for as long as we reside in this house. That way-"

"That way," she interrupted, "you can relate at your leisure all that information you once promised me."

"I might even be persuaded to make restitution for everything you left behind during our flight." Everything? It was tempting… but would he be able to worm his way out of an Unbreakable Vow? He _had_ just finished telling her that she was too naïve.

"I can imagine what you may be thinking at present. Let me offer my thoughts on the matter. If your wording of the vow leaves me ample opportunity to renege on our arrangement, you will have convinced me that you are unworthy of my consideration. If, however, I truly am prevented from delivering you to your enemy, I will necessarily be forced to rethink my assessment of you and, more specifically, your chances of victory in the war."

Damn him. It was just the sort of challenge she loved – an intellectual puzzle with more than her grade on the line.

"You've made an interesting case," she replied after a moment of reflection. She cast a modified body bind on Malfoy, a spell which allowed him some little mobility, enough to take a slow step or two at a time, but not enough to snatch the wand and run.

She frowned. "We need a Bonder. Is there… some kind of equivalent to a public notary we could visit?"

"Yes, and we do not even need to pay them the visit; they make house calls. I'm sure Edouard will not mind much if I use his name to send the owl." Ignoring the wand still trained on him, Lucius turned back to the table and picked up the quill he had used to write his earlier, mysterious letter.

Oh, and she had not even _thought_ that he might have addressed that message to a Death Eater or an information. Her eyes narrowed. "I'll write the note, and you tell me whom I'm addressing."

"As you like."

He did not sound terse. If anything, he sounded approving. Hermione shook her head and sat down, accepting with one hand the quill and parchment. "One more thing." A feral grin spread over her face. "This vow? Not only will you not harm me or deliver me into a situation where I would be harmed, but you will also tell me the truth. You will not be able to lie to me if your life depends on it."

His cat-like smile matched hers, and their eyes locked. Finally, they understood each other.


	11. Vows

A/N: Sorry I've seemed to abandon you for the past week, but I was on vacation with the fambly. I've neglected both my updates AND review replies, so I'll take care of the latter reeeeeeally fast and lazy right now by thanking everyone who takes the time to leave a word or ten in that little review box (even if it's a critique). It means so much to me to get those review alerts in my inbox, and I _usually_ do take the time to reply personally to them.

Enough blathering on the part of your author… ooh, except one more thing. I'm also sorry to say that updates might slow down from now on, as the muses are barely granting me trickles of inspiration (yes, I can blame mythical Greek entities for my writer's block if I darn well please!). But I do promise to finish it… eventually! Thank you infinitely for your patience so far.

Finally! Read, enjoy, review!

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Chapter Eleven:

The witness came at tea while Lucius and Hermione were sitting in a small white gazebo, complete with climbing ivy. They were sipping a French tea Hermione had never heard of, one apparently made with violets. She was enjoying the breeze, the afternoon sun, and the fresh pack of cigarettes Malfoy had procured for her. Evidently, that had been the purpose of his first letter (and, as promised, the fags had arrived within the hour).

Since neither of them knew just how public was any information regarding their flight and just who might be looking for them, Hermione had suggested that they Disillusion their appearances while the witness performed her duty as their Bonder. Of course, the witness would notice the charm, but no simple spell – as far as anyone knew, no spell, potion, or object – could mitigate the effect of an Unbreakable Vow.

When the Bonder arrived at the gazebo, having heard voices across the emerald expanse of lawn, she found a rail-thin woman with longish red hair and bulging brown eyes and a tall man about the same age as the other with lustrous black hair but otherwise going rather to seed. Hermione smiled as she pondered what the Bonder thought of their appearances (and the ill-fitting robes which they had found in various closets around the house) and recalled Malfoy's comment when she had completed her modification – that she looked like an unholy offspring of a Trelawney and a Weasely. Just for that, she had Disillusioned him to look like James Potter's portly brother.

"You requested my service as a Bonder for an Unbreakable Vow?" the woman began without preamble. She accepted the cup of tea Hermione offered and explained the procedure and full implications of the vow as they all walked inside the house, again upon Hermione's request. She had her reasons.

As they walked, she asked a bit hesitantly if there were any way they could keep their names confidential. The other woman, who named herself Alise Sevigny, smiled a little and replied that hers was a fairly common request, that the one asking the Vow could whisper the other's name at the appropriate moment. Alise spoke succinctly, without a single superfluous word, but politely. She was a civil servant doing her job as a witness to one of several Wizarding rites which required an observer or other sort of third party. Unlike a marriage, the administering of an Unbreakable Vow did not require any record, something Hermione had been sure to ask Lucius.

"Shall we begin? You two, kneel in the centre of the floor. Take the other's right hand."

As they knelt on a thick carpet in a patch of sun, Hermione reflected that she must be one of very few people to see Lucius Malfoy kneeling, even if he _was_ disguised at the moment. Her mouth was dry as she mentally rehearsed the words she was to say. When her hand touched his, she caught in her peripheral vision a shimmer where the Disillusionment charm fizzed at their contact.

He held her hand like a suitor preparing to kiss his lady's hand or to slip a ring on it. At this close proximity, the charm did not function perfectly, and she could see his grey eyes staring out under the brown eyes she had given him for the occasion. No, not staring, _boring_ into her. His touch was gentle but sure. She felt a thrill race through her.

The Bonder touched her wand to their joined right hands. "Begin," she instructed.

Hermione swallowed and briefly closed her eyes. She would _not_ mess this up because those grey eyes dazzled her. A second later, she opened them and managed a shaky smile at no one in particular before tilting her head so close to his that she could see beneath the transfiguration charm as if it were a physical mask he wore.

"Lucius Malfoy," she whispered, and that damnable thrill coursed through her again at merely pronouncing his name. Never before had she spoken his first name aloud, and it seemed to her that her tongue and teeth and lips wanted to caress the word, _Lucius_, to taste it and savour its exotic flavour.

Before her mind could pursue that train of thought any further, she drew back and finished her first question. "Will you swear to do no harm to me-" here she leaned forward again and whispered her own name, just so he could not wriggle out by claiming the vow applied to some 'unholy offspring of a Trelawney and a Weasley', "- so long as we dwell in this house, which for the purposes of this Vow, includes when we are physically in the house and when we are not?" The wording was terribly awkward, but it was vastly preferable to sound like a rambling idiot now than to face the tender mercies of the Death Eaters, which was sure to happen if Lucius escaped.

"I swear it," he replied. Hermione watched as a wire-thin strand of bright scarlet shot out from Alise's wand and twisted around their hands, forming a sort of glowing net.

"Will you swear to deliver me into no situation where you know I may come to serious harm, from yourself or from others, so long as we dwell in this house?" That question had been even more difficult to phrase than the first. She had not wanted to force a situation where he would not be able to allow her to leave the house or go to the loo by herself any more than she wanted to leave him room to justify handing her over to Voldemort or his followers by telling himself that he did not know for sure that they would harm her.

"I swear it." His voice, usually confident to the point of lazy, sounded a bit tense. She could see the muscles of his face tighten. Good. It was somehow comforting to know that he was also beginning to feel nervous.

A second glowing wire left the Bonder's wand and joined the first in the complex net surrounding their hands. The two strands were soon indistinguishable in the fine mesh.

"And will you swear to tell me only the truth so long as dwell in this house?"

"I swear it."

The third and final strand of scarlet interlaced with the first two, so they formed a dense weave over their hands. The spell looked as though it was burning their flesh, but all Hermione felt was a tingle in her right hand.

"May no one, no thing, or no force tear asunder what we have promised here today," Alise intoned. The words rang familiar to Hermione… she thought they sounded rather like a Muggle matrimonial blessing.

The scarlet weave settled into their flesh, illuminating their bones and blood vessels a dull red for a split second before fading entirely. Hermione felt something tight settling over her whole body. She had not even sworn anything; she wondered what Malfoy was feeling at that moment. She was disinclined to stand just then, feeling strangely weak after that mental exertion. Lucius showed no more desire than her to stand.

Evidently Alise was accustomed to this reaction to the rite. She concluded her visit with a few bureaucratic formalities; even in the midst of her daze, Hermione noted that the Bonder did not so much as request their names for any sort of record. When Alise left, Hermione and Lucius had not moved from their place on the floor in their patch of sun. As she began to feel a little more like herself, Hermione realised that her knees were protesting vigorously this unusual treatment. She slowly tried to remove her hand from Malfoy's, but he only gripped hers harder.

He raised her trapped hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss on her still-tingling skin before releasing her. When he spoke, it was with that secret little smile. "You were my first, Miss Granger. And you were very thorough."

Well, there was just no right way to respond to that. She stood shakily and brushed imaginary dust from her knees. Nifti chose that moment to rush into the sitting room and ask if they needed anything, more tea or perhaps some of the biscuits her Master loved or the little scones Master Marius liked? Hermione was not hungry but replied that tea would be nice and asked Lucius if he wanted anything. Yes, he also would like some tea and also to be released from the body bind Hermione had cast. Nifti cast a perplexed look at Hermione, who shook her head. Honestly, what pleasure did he take in confusing the poor creature like that?

While Nifti fetched the tea service from the gazebo, Hermione found the wand she had last used to transfigure their appearances. When she returned to the sitting room, she found Malfoy, looking for the world like an uncle of Harry's, sitting on a pale green sofa with some kind of floral pattern. It shifted before her eyes, and she realised that it was cycling through the seasons. She smiled at this example of the luxuries of the Wizarding World she had been missing for months now.

First she removed the transfiguration charms, then the modified body bind. The black hair and flabby body melted away to reveal the figure she knew so well by now. He stood and stretched, not quite smiling but looking strangely… mellow.

"You may not believe this," he said, "but I have absolutely no…" When his voice trailed away, he blinked and frowned.

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

He drew a breath and released it. "I have very little desire to kill Ms. Sevigny despite the not insignificant likelihood that she will report to a friend or to a superior the strange half hour she passed her."

Hermione wanted to laugh and settled for a wide grin. He had paused just then because what he had originally tried to say was not entirely the truth. Because of the vow, he was physically unable to tell her even such a minor untruth. Excellent.

"How magnanimous of you." She raised an eyebrow. "And how interesting. Only the truth, from now until…" she shrugged. "I should seize the opportunity while it lasts."

Lucius sat back down and rolled his shoulders before settling in the most casual position she had ever seen him, head thrown back against the sofa cushions and arm flung over the edge. "I cannot lie to you, but I am in no way required to respond to your every query."

"True. We'll start with something easy." Hermione thought back to the past few days as she gazed out the window in the opposite wall. Nifti came in chattering with the tea service and set it on a low table near the sofa. She bowed out when neither responded to her. Hermione definitely felt too lazy to pour herself another cup and imagined Lucius probably shared her sentiment. "Why were you so charming with my flatmates?"

He lifted his head to regard her with a touch of incredulity in his expression. "My dear girl, you have a chance very few people will ever have: Lucius Malfoy is unable to tell you even the slightest falsehood… and you're using this incredible opportunity to ask why I was polite to your friends? I really do wonder what sort of image of me you've built up in your head."

She said nothing, just tilted her head and waited for him to answer her question and tried not to think about how it was he could continue to call her his dear girl. One hand, it was insulting, and on another she felt warmed at those simple words. Mostly, though, it was unsettling.

"As you like. There are generally several motivations which come together in any action I choose or choose not to undertake, but I believe the main factor in my decision was… your inevitable confusion at such conduct."

She had certainly not expected that. "My… you were just screwing with me?" Okay, she _had_ thought of it but had not seriously considered it.

"Think of it any way you like." He shrugged, his head returned to its spot on the sofa cushions. "Oh, it also occurred to me that it was more beneficial than not to maintain your goodwill, and I had not had the opportunity to socialise much recently in any case, but mostly…"

"My confusion."

He pulled his head just far enough up to look her in the eyes when he responded. "You had certainly caused me a good share of confusion a few minutes before."

Damn him. "Right. Listen, about that, you're not…"

"As I said, I'm under no obligation to answer your every question."

"Right." Her eyes fell to the fabric under her hands. "What's that little white flower?"

"Queen Anne's lace."

She twisted her body to peer closely at the flower before it disappeared. Her eyes were wide when she straightened again. "It's not. It's baby's breath."

Malfoy turned his head to look at her for a long moment. She held her breath. "So it is. My mistake."

She exhaled and let her head flop back on the cushions. "Mr. Malfoy, I believe I despise you."

"You're a promising girl, but you must learn to relax if you're to reach a ripe old age and leave as many possible footnotes as you can in the history books."

"Mm." It looked uncomfortable, but she was finding this position quite pleasant. The cushions were firm and plump enough that they cradled her head and neck. Yes, this was very comfortable. Her breathing slowed as she felt part of the load of stress she had been carrying dissipate now that Malfoy was under oath not to harm her or potentially harm her or…

The patch of sunlight had lengthened and lazily crossed a few panels of the carpet when Hermione jerked awake, silent tears streaming down her face. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her body was racked with convulsive shivers. Lucius, who had also fallen into a doze, twitched awake at the noise.

She did not realise that Lucius was present until he spoke in a low voice. "One of your nightmares?" From the sound of it, he was quite close. That did not help her mood any.

A scathing reply readied itself on her tongue, but she restrained herself. He did not deserve that for his innocent inquiry. "Yes. I _hate_ it. I can only sleep when I'm exhausted to the point of delusion, and even then I'm afraid. Please, you have to know something about this." She lifted her head to gaze at him, eyes wide and pleading.

He laid a hand on her shoulder so she faced him a little more directly. "I swear to you, I know of no spell which could have this effect, not from merely touching her wand."

"No _spell_," she repeated, "but there must be something. There _is_ something, isn't there?"

He sighed. "Perhaps, but you will not like hearing it."

"Tell me!" It came out almost a shriek, but he did not wince at the sharpness of her tone.

"I have heard of extremely rare cases… it's never been proven, mind you. But one does hear occasionally of people who have…" For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. "… who appear to have somehow cursed themselves."

She stiffened, and rage replaced the helplessness she had been feeling after her nightmare. "Cursed themselves? Are you saying _I_ did this, that this is all… psychosomatic?" If the circumstances had been different, Hermione would have been amused to note that he looked wary when he made his reply. As it was, she was just annoyed.

"In a sense, yes, but the effect is no less powerful for that. I'm no Healer, as we both well know, so I know very little about the cause or cure for such a case, but that's my only guess." That intensity had returned to his eyes again, and Hermione felt some of her anger melt away. Well, he did not _sound_ like he thought she was nutters.

"It never ceases to amaze me," he continued, "how strong a sway our minds have over our bodies. It may be that your mind is so convinced of the evil taint of Bellatrix's wand that it has convinced itself that you had actually been somehow contaminated by it. The obvious solution is, of course, for you to realise that evil does not come from without but from within, however you look at such matters… but I do not think it will be so easy."

She could not think of anything to say but hiccoughed a little. Of course he was right on one point, in a general sense, but it was impossible right now for her to believe that she had made all this up. How could her mind have created those detailed scenarios, starting with Malfoy's torture? No, there must be something more to her nightmares. Just as he had been able to name the wrong sort of flower because he believed it to be something else, he could have _said_ there was no spell capable of causing these nightmares because he did not know of any.

Her eyes fell to examine her hands, and she shrunk away from his touch. He did sound genuinely concerned, but she did not want the kind of concern that told her she was doing this to herself. Just as she was preparing to make an excuse to leave, he spoke again, and it was from pure surprise that her eyes met his again.

"Shall I tell you a secret?"

She nodded.

"In my heart of hearts, as the saying goes, I've always been convinced that the ability to perform magic derives from strength of character, or rather, than the inability to perform magic results from a weak character. It wasn't the sort of thing people said much even when I was a child, but it's a belief I've never been able to completely abandon. So when I say that that the power of the mind over the body astounds me, I mean that very seriously." He lifted his hand from her shoulder to touch her cheek. "And you, my dear, have an incredible mind."

Finally, she was able to manage a weak smile. "Now, now, flattery won't solve anything."

He smiled back, and she felt a soft warmth steal through her. Now was _not_ the time for that, she tried to tell herself. "You know that I am incapable of telling you anything but the truth, so long as we dwell in this house."

Somehow, he had slid closer to her during that conversation and now was near enough to stir her hair with his breath. He was looking at her in a way very few people had ever looked at Hermione Granger, and when he slowly leaned forward, she knew she was not mistaken about his intent. And as much as she would love to receive some human comfort right now, this might not be the best idea when she was feeling so… unstable.

She ducked her head and nestled it in the curve between his neck and shoulder. This close, she felt him sigh a little and then arrange himself to accommodate her. He patted her hair and wrapped his other arm low around her shoulders.

"Have I told you you're making things very complicated?" he murmured. Although she did not believe for a second that this gesture of holding her was entirely sincere, his quiet strength did have a calming effect on her. A cynical part of her wanted to insist he was only doing this to keep her quiet, but most of her did not care this point what his motivations were. She decided to enjoy this display of sympathy while it lasted and let herself drowse in his arms.


	12. New Territory

A/N – This chapter's a bit longer than usual because it was originally two chapters… but then they would be two short chapters, and who wants that? Exactly. So read, enjoy, and review!

ON TO

Chapter Twelve:

The next day, Hermione set out alone on an exploration of the Lefidèle grounds. She woke up very early after the longest and most restful sleep she had experienced in what felt like years. Sometime during the night she had awakened in her own bed and assumed Lucius had deposited her there when he had tired of cradling her sleeping form.

Before waking up in her room, she could not remember for certain if she had another nightmare, which was something remarkable in itself. She had fallen back asleep soon enough, and then she definitely had endured another one, but upon waking once more, she had not felt the usual terror. It felt somehow more distant, like something she had seen on television – horrific but… external.

And now that she was awake and rested, she could recall at leisure the evening after the Bonder had left, and the recollection left her feeling vaguely uneasy. Uneasy and in no hurry to see her companion anytime soon. That and her natural curiosity were why she was now shooing Nifti out of the cavernous kitchen, so she could assemble sandwiches the way _she_ liked them.

So Nifti would have something to do, Hermione asked her if she could please find a picnic basket she could take with her as she explored. She felt a little guilty for giving into the system of house elf oppression (which she was sure was a part of the larger over-arching patriarchy), but it was the only way she could get a little breathing room. With the help of a few spells, she made an inventory of what Edouard and Marius had to eat and drink and then prepared a lunch for herself.

As she had no idea how much longer Malfoy would sleep, Hermione was in something of a hurry to leave. When Nifti returned with a precious little white wicker basket, Hermione sent the elf on another errand of finding a map or two of the area. She phrased it as a polite question, but there was no denying that was she was exploiting Nifti's position. But much of her guilt was forgotten when she opened the book Nifti had brought, a gorgeously illustrated history of the region along with maps which responded to the reader's queries (as long as they were map-related and posed in French).

It took only a minute or two to discover that she had landed in southernmost France in a department known as _hautes pyrenées_. The area the windows looked over in the few rooms she had seen so far presented green hills and distant peaks which she now knew were part of the Pyrenees range. Later, she thought as she set off with her basket and book, she would have to find the library for herself and see what other sorts of volumes Edouard and Marius had accumulated.

The map showed a stream trickling down the southern side of the property toward a lake she thought would not be too strenuous to reach. She left the house through the main door which let out to the gazebo, turned a corner to walk along the edge of the house. It looked more like a small château from the outside, all stone and spires but almost small enough to fit into the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

She came to another corner, made another turn, and gasped. How she had not seen this particular vista before she could not imagine; none of the windows she had looked out so far must have faced south. Just behind a line of gentle foothills rose where the house was perched rose granite behemoth. It was massive, much wider than it was tall, and dropped off into a verdant valley. According to the map, the stream would meander into the valley. It seemed like as good a destination as any.

She walked slowly and floated the basket along behind her, taking in the scenery and reflecting on her situation. It felt a little bit criminal to send up smoke into the deep blue sky and the summery air, so she left her cigarettes in the basket. In Paris, she had walked around quite a bit, and while her surroundings were radically different now, she was glad that she did not tire immediately.

The short, tame grass around the house gave way to flowering shrubs and soon to light forest. To her delight, she saw a dirt path parallel to the stream. Just as she gained the path, Nifti nearly gave her a heart attack by appearing with a _pop_ at her side. "Breakfast is ready if Miss cares to return to the house."

Hermione blinked. "Thank you, Nifti, but I have food packed," she said with a nod at the floating basket. "I should be back in time for dinner." She paused. "If… Mr. Malfoy asks about me, please tell him I'm, er, exploring the area. I'll see you later," she finished and started down the path with a quick step. The sooner she left the property, she thought, the sooner she would be out of Nifti's range - and immediately felt guilty for it. Nifti was only doing what she had been taught… no, _indoctrinated_ to do.

The house disappeared behind a foothill much sooner than she would have expected. The mountain rose on one side as she descended into the nearby valley. Her faithful little stream would lead her back to the house, so she was not worried about becoming lost. The day warmed as she walked, after awhile with a staff she magically cut and stripped. She hummed as she walked, until the sun grew so strong that she decided to stop and start eating the food she had packed. There was no good place in the immediate vicinity to do so, so she continued on the path, hoping a convenient spot – a clear patch of grass or a nice flat rock by the stream – would shortly make itself available.

She had begun to grow impatient when a hidden lake appeared around a rocky bend, wide and sparkling under the midday sun. By the time she reached the lake, she was quite tired but very pleased with her accomplishment. It was a breath-taking spot to rest, looking down in a forested valley on one side, up to a stark mountain on the other, and back to the foothill behind her.

She found a rock near the water, shaped a much like a seat, and settled in to eat and peruse her book. The French therein was not standard contemporary, and she lost track of the time as she tried to puzzle out the antique script. When she looked up, startled by a distant noise like a breaking tree branch, she was surprised to see how far the sun had moved. One more page, she thought, or maybe two, and then she would definitely have to…

Her head jerked up again as realisation of what had startled her hit home. Something that _sounded_ like a breaking tree branch but might have been something entirely different. She thought it had emanated from the part of the forest nearest her, so she ducked behind the rock and carefully peered around its edge, near the bottom. There was no further sign of life aside from singing birds for a few minutes, and she began to feel silly for her paranoia. "Constant vigilance indeed," she muttered when another sound reached her.

This sounded like someone rustling through underbrush, someone coming closer and closer to the lake. Just as she had feared, a little while later she could make out a figure walking in the same general direction as the path she had followed. There was no way this could be a coincidence; the map had not shown another human habitation for a very long way in any direction. She slid the wand from her pocket and readied a body bind.

"If you're here, Miss Granger" Malfoy called out, "I would appreciate it if you did not take this opportunity to do away with a longtime foe of your Order."

She rolled her eyes and stood up, brushing dust from her clothes and body. Only then did she notice the basket resting in front of the rock, announcing her presence for anyone looking for her to see. She berated herself for missing that important detail.

"Since you asked so nicely," she replied as she regained her perch on her picnic rock, "I supposed I can wait a little while longer." She waited until he was closer before proceeding to ask how he had known where she was.

"It was quite simple. Nifti told me where she had last seen you, and I've taken that path myself several times, though I most often prefer to Apparate directly to this lake." He eyed her basket. "I would be most grateful if anything cool and liquid remained in there."

She floated the basket up and opened to see what remained of the food she had packed. "Lucky you. There's a flagon of wildflower nectar… it was iced when I set out… and several snow cherries left. Help yourself." After a silent minute or two when he drank some of the nectar and very elegantly ate handful of cherries – how was that humanly _possible_, she wondered, not for the first time – she asked, a bit nervously, if he would like to sit down. She told herself it was only because she did not like him towering above her like that.

He looked surprised and no little amused when he accepted and lowered himself to the warm surface of the rock, flecked here and there with mica. She tried not to think about the press of his hip against hers as she looked out over the lake.

"I thought I heard someone Apparate here," she said, breaking the silence which had once more descended. Although he retained much of his cool demeanour, this close she could see that his hair was not quite as smooth as usual, his robe a bit dusty from the trail, his hairline shiny with tiny droplets of perspiration. And of course he could not have Apparated without the wand she carried in her pocket.

"I heard it as well, but it was nothing more than a squirrel underestimating his own weight and overestimating the strength of a dead branch. Is that Edouard's beloved _histoire régionale_?" he asked, leaning in to inspect the book on her lap.

She glanced at him, his body now touching hers from her shoulder to her knee, but he appeared absorbed in the book. "I don't know. It's… Nifti brought it to me when I asked for a map of the area. I've never seen anything like it."

He looked up at her and grinned. This close, his smile was… striking. She had to remember to breathe and to try to look casual. At least she was not sleep-deprived and… delete that thought.

"From what I understand, coming from you that means quite a lot." If he had not been aware of their proximity before, surely he was now. His voice was low and amused. "Perhaps I should not be surprised that you chose the loveliest location here to curl up with this book. After all, you chose the City of Lights for your exile."

She dropped her eyes back to her book. "It wasn't exile. It was… protection. They want to protect me from all the killing." She swallowed, unsure of why she was telling him this. "They say they can't spare me… that I'm too important to risk in the current climate."

"Hermione," he said quietly. The sheer surprise of hearing him pronounce her given name was so great that she raised her eyes to his without thinking. "They're right. Perhaps your mother hens will prove victorious in the end. That is certainly not the way my… former associates would treat you if you worked with them. Even if your professors are not aware of it, it's obvious to me that you are an extremely capable woman in your own right."

She thought she should defend her fellow Order members at this, but her brain did not seem to be functioning quite right. In order to regain some control over her senses, she tore her eyes from his again, and this time, he lifted a hand so that his slender fingers rested lightly on her neck and his palm cupped her jaw.

"Are you so afraid of me that you cannot do me the honour of looking at me?" he whispered.

Her eyes wanted to dart away, to settle on the calming landscape around them, but she would not let him make her out to be a coward. She locked her gaze on his cool grey eyes and took a deep breath.

"Not afraid of you." She laid her own hand atop his. "Afraid of this. What do you want?" she asked in a pleading tone.

He smiled again. "Isn't it obvious?" When she blinked and tilted her head a degree, he chuckled and drew her face near his, and the next thing she knew, his lips were pressing hers. They were soft, cool from the wildflower nectar, and sweet from the snow cherries.

She could have broken away – part of her dearly wanted to, in fact – but that part of her had lost control by now. Hermione leaned into the kiss and parted her lips. Never before had she imagined how full and firm his bottom lip was, just perfect for kissing. Her body was by turns tense and warm and helpless, responsive where he touched her and beyond the mental hold she usually kept on herself.

She made a small noise – of contentment, of desire, even a little of fear – when he deepened the kiss further. Her hand reached up tentatively to touch his face. Her thumb stroked the familiar planes of that haughty mien which had cast superior glanced at her so often. Her fingers glided to his hair, soft as silk to her touch. He had not tied it back today, so it fell in a glorious fair curtain past his shoulders. She brushed some of it behind one ear and traced the shape of his face.

There was no denying, she would later reflect, that Lucius Malfoy was a wonderful kisser. It only made sense; he had accumulated _decades_ more experience than anyone she had ever kissed before. She had kissed boys who were too yielding, like they wanted her to do all the work, and other who were too forceful, shoving their tongues halfway down her throat, but Lucius was another matter altogether.

He kissed and licked and nibbled, calling up a flush from deep inside her. She had not felt this heat in a long time, and it scared her with its intensity. She could not do _this_ with _him_, not without thinking long and… Delete that thought.

He pulled away from her just enough to change his focus to the soft spot on her neck behind her jaw. A low moan escaped her when he shifted up to her earlobe. His mouth there sent a jolt of heat through her. His hand slipped to her shoulder and slowly began tracing the neckline of her dressing gown from her collarbone, down… down… He grazed a particularly sensitive spot through the light material, and the combined sensations from his sensual assault left her breathless and almost senseless.

"Wait," she whispered. "Stop, please." Almost.

For a moment, Lucius was perfectly still, and then he drew himself up to face her. His hair was still neater than hers would ever be, but she could see he was flushed and his lips swollen. Part of her was pleased to note that he was not breathing regularly either.

"I deeply apologise," he said after regaining some of his composure. "It's been so long, and you look so delicious sitting there, I… forgive me. I never meant… you know I cannot harm you."

She could not tell if he was genuinely contrite; his posture remained as arrogant as ever and his eyes direct, but there did seem to be feeling behind his voice, a suggestion of a tremor.

She captured his hand in both of hers and contemplated it as she spoke. "It's not… you didn't harm me. I just – I don't understand what's happening or why or anything, and…" She forced a short laugh. "And it's been awhile for me too." Oh God, she was _not_ having this conversation, was _not_ talking about sex with Lucius Malfoy.

He turned his hand over and lifted of hers to his lips and settled a soft kiss on it. "If it's any comfort, my dear, I'm quite lost myself."

Edouard's book had so engrossed Hermione that she had not noticed dark clouds overtake the clear blue sky. When they Apparated back to the house, each a little too careful with the other, a cool, humid breeze had sprung up, and the sun had been reduced to a weak, nebulous glow behind the storm clouds. By the time Nifti had dinner hot on the table, the windows looked out to a world dark as night, sown with distant lightning flashes and rumbles of thunder.

To her delight, Hermione had found a recent copy of a French wizarding newspaper, and, after politely asking Lucius if he minded, devoured the news along with her meal. Mostly she really _was_ interested – no, desperate – to hear about current events in the Wizarding World, but it did occur to her to be grateful for this excuse not to talk to him.

When dinner was finished, she returned to the sitting room which, with a roaring fire in the fireplace, provided the best light for reading. One thing she did miss about the Muggle world when she was not in it was electrical lights. She curled up with the newspaper, approaching the final few articles and wondering how best to slip away to look for the library.

The fire crackled as rain splattered the stone and glass of the house, and the rumblings of thunder drew closer and closer. It was almost cosy like this, she thought as she laid down the paper to gaze at the flames.

She did not know how long she had been staring into the fire when he said her name. His voice roused her from her reverie, and she realised how dry her eyes were. She looked up blinking to see him seated on the sofa, holding something like a magazine.

"I have something for you to look at," he explained, "unless you would rather run around in second-hand dressing gowns for the remainder of our stay here."

That sounded reasonable enough. There were a lot of pragmatic details concerning spur-of-the-moment flights like this that rendered them most impractical, she was discovering more and more.

"I suppose not," she replied and unfolded herself from the chair in which she had settled to take a seat next to him. She was too conscious of their proximity and hoped she was not blushing.

He handed her what looked remarkably like a clothes catalogue. The models in these pictures sashayed and winked and grinned in all sorts of robes and more Muggle-style clothing, but besides that, it was almost identical to the catalogues her parents received.

"Tell me which ones you like, and we should receive our order tomorrow." A faint smile crossed his lips. "And before you object as you once did, allow me to point out that I am wholly responsible for bringing you here and thereby depriving you of your usual wardrobe." This time, the grin was more pronounced and reached his eyes. "You may repay me if you wish."

She rolled her eyes but began flipping through the glossy pages. "How do the sizes work?" she asked as she paused to admire a particularly smart robe.

"It's quite simple. I take your measurements with a simple spell, which will be recorded on the message I send. Allow me to demonstrate."

He produced their shared wand from a pocket in his borrowed robe; Hermione did not remember setting it down and raised an eyebrow at seeing him with it. She reminded herself of the Vow he had taken and was a little comforted.

He spoke a few quiet words and pointed the wand at her body. What appeared to be a golden streamer shot out the business end and snaked its way around her figure, from the tip of her toes to the ends of her fingers and the top of her head. A few seconds later, the gold streamer zoomed to a piece of parchment resting on Lucius's other side and settled on it as a stream of tiny golden numbers scrolling across the page.

"Oh." She blinked and returned her attention to the catalogue.

"Please take your time. We are hardly in a rush to do anything else."

A brilliant burst of lightning outside and a crash of thunder which seemed to echo between the rocky peaks in the area underscored his words. They really were stuck for the time being, by nature and by circumstance. She perused the catalogue, marking the items she liked and wondered, not for the first time, how long they would be staying here. And she had sent no word of her whereabouts to anyone; her friends, Muggle and magical alike, must think she had been killed or abducted.

Drowsiness stole over her as the night wore on, comfortable in her seat in front of a dying fire. She excused herself and climbed a flight of stairs to the bedroom loaned to her. Her hike earlier and a delicious meal contributed to her fatigue, so she fell asleep quickly despite the storm raging outside.

Gagging and screaming, she awoke a couple of hours later with the memory of a faint metallic tang in her mouth. The dream… still half-asleep, she wiped her mouth with the back of her, expecting to see dark blood smeared across her pale skin. Her pillows and sheets were damp from mingled humidity, sweat, and tears. There was no question of falling back asleep in that clammy bed amid the stale odour of her night terror.

She remembered how peacefully she had slept in Lucius's arms and slowly rose to her feet. For a long time, she paced along the walls which enclosed her, debating the matter with herself. Not only was she afraid he would get the wrong idea, especially after the events of that afternoon, but she also worried that would he simply refuse. Who would want to share his bed with a girl prone to nightmares that ended when she awoke in hysterics?

Well, she reasoned, if nothing else, she could insist as part of the debt he believed he owed her, though she hated the thought of resorting to such a tactic. Now that she was more fully awake, she was not sure that the humiliation would be worth a few hours of quiet sleep. She found her hand gripping the doorknob and faced herself to relax. After taking a deep breath and letting it go, she turned the knob and entered the hallway. The panelled wood that led to his bedroom, almost a twin to her own door, gleamed faintly. It would take her only a few steps to reach her destination, but it suddenly seemed an impossible distance to cross.

_Stop it,_ she told herself. _You've faced much worse without a second thought. The worst he can do is slam the door in your face._ Inexplicably warmed by the anger that image summoned, she walked to his door and knocked softly.

"Come in," he called, sounding muzzy, like he had been asleep a moment before. Probably he had been.

She pushed the door open and closed it behind her as silently as she could. When she crossed the room and faced him, he was sitting up, looking at her expectantly, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

"Hello… I'm sorry, I just woke up, and… it was horrible. I couldn't stay in there." She shivered in the light dressing gown she had wrapped around herself upon waking.

"I heard." He yawned behind his hand. "Excuse me. Would you like to spend the rest of the night here?"

She nodded and swallowed. He was shirtless, his fair skin almost aglow in the silver moonlight. It was hard to remember at the moment who this beautiful man inviting her to his bed was.

"Thank you," she whispered as she climbed between the light sheets. It would not be easy to sleep in her dressing gown, but all she wore underneath was her bra and knickers. He would _definitely _get the wrong idea if she stripped to her underwear (and they did not even match). It occurred to her to wonder what else _he_ was wearing and immediately felt a blush spread over her face. Lucky thing it was too dark for him to notice.

The bed was larger than the one in her Parisian apartment, but it was no so large that either of them would be able to forget that someone else was there. She was prepared to settle herself on the far edge away from him when he surprised her by speaking again, still in the fuzzy, sleepy voice so unlike the sure tones to which she was accustomed.

"Come here," he said quietly, and she turned to see him lying on his back with one arm outstretched. He pulled a pillow over his shoulder. "That should be better."

She scooted across the bed and, after a brief hesitation, laid her head on the proffered pillow and a hand on his chest. Her heart raced as she lay still and sped up a little more when he set a careless arm across her shoulders.

"Comfortable?"

Still unable to believe that she was about to fall asleep in Lucius Malfoy's arms, she whispered that she was.

"Good night and sleep well," he murmured before pressing a soft kiss to her messy hair.


	13. Summoned

A/N – You knew it was coming (no pun intended). The rating has been upped to M. I don't really know where the line is between M, which is allowed here, and MA, which is not, so if anyone feels that this steps outrageously over that line, please let me know, and I will (reluctantly) edit. But who wants that?

So, ahem. This chapter contains adult content. Yeah. Don't read (or at the very least, skip the naughty bit at the end) if you're under the age of consent, whatever that is where you live. I don't know if that's strictly necessary, but I'd better err on the safe side.

Gosh, I'm a little nervous. I haven't written anything like this for a looooong time. Now that that's all over with… read, enjoy(!), and review!

ON TO

Chapter Thirteen:

For the next few days, Lucius Malfoy was a perfect gentleman – and it was driving Hermione mad. Or more accurately, he played the part of the gentleman only at times when Hermione might have preferred otherwise. Other times, he was just as arrogant, as argumentative, as condescending as ever.

On several occasions, she found herself on the brink of asking what was going on, but her Gryffindor courage always deserted her at the last minute. Bloody useless Gryffindor she made. What was she supposed to say anyway? "I know you disapprove of my politics, my friends, my family, and probably my hair, but why haven't you even tried to kiss me again?"

Everyday she went for a stroll around the grounds of Marius's beautiful property, and since he took the Vow, Lucius felt it necessary to accompany her. If he had been anyone else, she might have suspected (and been flattered to suspect) a ploy to lure her to the most romantic spots for a snog, but Lucius neither lured nor snogged her.

They walked and walked – about books when she was feeling civil and politics when she was not. Her confusion and annoyance (and further irritation at her annoyance) at his somehow distant behaviour was almost offset by her delight in discovering that he harboured a secret curiosity about Muggle society – so secret that she guessed not even he was aware of it, thinking it only a disdainful sort of amazement that these primitive people managed to muddle along at all.

"It's my understanding," he had once said on such a walk, "that Muggles are content to wile away years of their pathetic lives sat in front of a flickering box of pictures."

It was not phrased as a question, but Hermione knew that he had not said it at random.

"That's the telly," she replied, "well, television. My parents never let me watch much, and I always felt a bit left out when my mates at school used to talk about whatever show was popular. But you're right – many of them do seem happy to spend all their free time glued to it."

"It's a wonder you have time to kill yourself off and reproduce as rapidly as you do when there's a…television at home, obviously much more fascinating than real life."

As often happened during these conversations, she felt herself rising to his attempt to bait her. She had never been such an avid fan of the telly herself, but it was not _all_ that Muggles did.

"Muggles still read and write and invent, you know. Has any witch or wizard ever stepped foot on the moon?"

He stopped and turned to face her, mouth pursed and eyebrows raised in an incredulous expression. "Why should anyone wish to walk on the moon? It's just a rock: no air, no life, no anything, though I suppose with six billion people crowding this planet, you must be desperate for some privacy."

She stared. "Why would anyone want to go to the moon? Because it's _there_. It's the _moon_. Poets dream on it, and hundreds of years ago, scientists discovered the Earth was round by observing its shadow on the moon." Her expression of surprise became a grimace. "It's a stupid question, why go to the moon. You're just jealous that Muggles have done something no wizard has."

At her sullen expression, an amused smile touched his lips. "Let's make a list then, shall we? Things which Muggles can do versus things which wizards can do. Ahem. Muggles can visit dead rocks in space. Wizards can procure a time-turner," here he looked keenly at her, and she wondered not for the first time how much he really knew about her, "and travel to any moment in history, provided they are very careful."

It was something of an exaggeration on both sides; so far, Muggles had only visited, and while she had some experience with a time-turner to move a few hours back and forth in time, she had never heard of anyone travelling like a tourist through history.

"Muggles can travel about on stinking metal machines which consume fossil fuels and pollute their too-crowded planet. Wizards can Floo, Apparate, or fly by broomstick. While Muggles are inventing ever-more sophisticated methods of slicing each other up for medical and cosmetic purposes, wizards can cure most serious ailments with a simple spell or potion."

She set her hands on her hips and favoured him with a very sceptical look. "What, and that makes wizards superior beings? Muggles scientists are already discovering ways to instantly teleport subatomic particles… it's likely only a matter of time before they can work on larger objects. As for medicine, they have refined their tools for 'slicing' to focused beams of light."

An unexpected smile curved his lips, and the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. "And yet, despite their particles and beams of light, can any one of them do this?" He drew the wand, which he carried most of the time when they went on these little excursions, pointed it at a brilliant orange blossom, and muttered a few words. The graceful flower transformed into a lovely orange bird Hermione did not recognise. It chirped a rather startled chirp, doubtless surprised to find itself suddenly accoutred with a beak and feet and feathers, then burst into a sweet warble from its perch on the slender green stem.

She rolled her eyes, but it was impossible to stay annoyed after such a display. "No," she admitted, "but you still haven't proved that you're better than them."

In fact, after displays like that – or breathtaking moments when they rounded a hill to come across a lush valley laid out at their feet, or a comfortable evening cosy in the great room of the house while the nightly storms raged – she wanted more to kiss him than to kill him.

They even continued to sleep together, though only in the most literal sense of the term. Her ever-increasing confusion served almost as well as fear of her nightmares to keep her awake, as the latter had disappeared almost completely since they shared a bed. He held her against his chest and kissed her frizzy hair, but when she tilted her head to offer her lips, he shut his eyes and pretended to fall asleep.

She told herself that she would not be quite so annoyed if he had not been the one to make the first move, not counting that kiss she had initiated back in Paris. No, he had been the one to kiss her down at the lake and then to try again after they had taken the Vow.

Hermione was turning all this over in her mind one night, laying on Lucius's bare chest and listening to the mingled sounds of their breathing. She was having no more success than usual and felt herself finally growing sleepy when Lucius jerked into consciousness with a wordless cry. She propped herself up on one elbow and was bent over him when his pale eyes flew open and latched onto hers.

"The Dark Lord," he managed to say between gritted teeth. "He's calling his followers." One hand clamped over his other forearm but not before Hermione saw the mark, now black and seeming to glow with malign energy. He pushed himself up so he was reclining on his pillows, all tense lines and grimaces.

For him to allow so much pain to show, she knew he must be in agony. He sucked air through his teeth, and his knuckles were white, clutched on his arm and the bed sheets.

"And there is nothing you can take, no creams or potions or anything?"

He looked up to glare at her so fiercely that she almost recoiled. "I'm sure you know there is no such remedy. The pain will subside only when the mark's bearer appears in the Dark Lord's presence." His smooth accent was harsh and jagged.

"I believe he is…" He inhaled sharply. "…is somehow augmenting even what I would normally feel under such circumstances."

He had dropped his eyes back to his forearm, but now he lifted them to stare at her. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight, so pale they looked like twin chips of ice. "It would be so simple to answer his call."

Too late, Hermione recalled that the Vow did not explicitly prohibit such an action unless it would directly endanger her. And worse, the wand lay on a nightstand on Lucius's side of the bed. She swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut.

"But I won't. To do so would be to cast my lot irrevocably with him, and I have come to realise that some… flexibility in that area might be prudent."

Hermione let out a breath she had not known she was holding. "I'm glad to hear it. Is there anything I can do… would you like some tea or… anything?"

"Just talk to me," he replied. "The most useful thing you can do is to distract me from this."

Her mind raced, but she could not think of a single thing to say. This was impossible – she was normally too happy to chatter about the latest bit of information she had learned. Right now, the only thing she could think of was that horrible mark burned into his flesh. Actually, that _did_ remind her…

"In my fifth year at Hogwarts," she began, words spilling one after another, "when that insufferable Umbridge woman was there, I designed these special Galleons that would alert their carriers to the next secret meeting we were holding."

After all this time, she wondered if the spell she had used to bind the signatories of Dumbledore's Army still functioned. Best not to find out, she decided.

"I got the idea from… that," she explained with a nod at his forearm. "All I had to do was charm the serial numbers on my Galleon for the date and time of the next meeting, and the rest changed accordingly." She paused. "I think it made Harry quite uncomfortable, but it wasn't as if we could announce it over breakfast."

"Clever girl," he murmured. "And I understand you sent the woman into the Forbidden Forest at a time when the centaurs were feeling… less than friendly toward wizards."

She chuckled at the memory. "Desperate times."

Lucius released his death grip on his forearm to reach up and squeeze her shoulder. She was so surprised by his gesture that she did not shift under his painfully tight grasp. "That was when I began to pay more attention to you. You were a bright girl, but I suspect you did not fully comprehend the amount of support she had garnered. To this day, I imagine you do not know all you were up against when you took up arms against Umbridge." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I wonder if you also know how close you came to killing her."

As the subject became uncomfortable, she glanced away and grimaced. Her shoulder was beginning to ache under his fingers. "No, I don't know, but it was necessary." She bit her lip. "You're hurting me."

Immediately, he let go her shoulder and dropped his hand. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he jolted as if stung by a vicious wasp. His eyes widened until they looked ready to burst and then rolled up in his head. His fingers buried themselves in the sheets and clenched so hard she heard the knuckles crack.

"Oh God," she whispered. "Oh no… Mr. Malfoy?" He didn't respond. "Lucius? Are you… can you hear me?"

He did not appear to hear her or be aware of anything except whatever was hurting him. It must be a spell, vengeance from Voldemort for what he saw as Lucius's betrayal. The man began convulsing, and when Hermione reached out, his skin burned under her fingers. She yelped and, without quite knowing why, began to cry. She felt so _useless_, sitting here while Voldemort was somehow torturing him.

He had said there was no remedy to stop the pain, but surely a damp cloth would serve at the very least to cool his fevered flesh. Hermione jumped out of the bed and ran to the nearest loo, where she ran cool water over a cloth. Cloth in hand, she returned to find that the tremors had worsened. Feeling a bit awkward in her new nightgown, she clambered atop him, thighs straddling his waist, and leaned all her weight on to her hands, splayed out on his chest. He fought her for a bit but soon quieted under her hands.

When she felt assured that he would not start flailing again, she picked up the cloth from its now damp spot on the bed and began pressing it to his flushed countenance. His eyes fluttered open. "Say something," he croaked. "Anything."

"I don't know, I… I can't think of…" Her heart was pounding until the noise of it filled her ears, and her brain refused to function. All she could do was babble. "Before all this happened, your mark and everything, I was thinking about… why you've been acting different lately. I wondered, did I do something? Am I that repulsive? But no, why should it have something to do with me? I refuse to blame myself for your inconsistencies," she finished heatedly. Her anger seemed to have cleared her mind nicely. "Well?"

His breath was coming in shallow gasps, but he managed nevertheless to answer her. "Good. Do not blame yourself, Hermione. It's… I can't do this to you. I can't drag you into something, not now. I can't, for your sake and for my own. Perhaps… perhaps if we had known each other at another time, under other circumstances…"

Either Voldemort's spell was lessening its hold on Lucius, or their conversation really was working to distract him from the pain. As he continued to speak, his breath calmed, and he started to sound a bit more like himself. "I have too much respect for you to involve you in something… something with no future. You must see that."

Another jolt of something hit, and his words trailed off. Hermione was shocked to see shining trails of moisture run from the corners of his eyes. The sight made her cry harder, hurt by what she could see of his pain and hurt by his words. They sounded so… final, like he had come to this decision without even asking her input.

"I do not see that," she said, but he did not appear to react to her words. "Lucius?"

Her fear grew to agonising heights before he was able to speak again. "It's too much. Merlin help me, Hermione, I cannot endure any more of this. I must answer him, but if I do that, I will break my Vow."

And if he broke the Vow, he would die. And there was nothing Hermione could think of to prevent it, no way to alleviate his suffering.

Nothing, except…

She took a deep breath and moved her hands from her chest to stroke his face, which ordinarily looked so young in the dim moonlight but was now contorted with lines bespeaking the torture he was undergoing. His cheeks were hot and still slightly wet from her ministrations. The cloth she laid a little ways away, so it was still within her reach.

"You can endure it," she whispered and then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He did not respond right away, but when she shifted to kiss the sensitive spot just under his ear, he moaned softly.

"Hermione…" he began, but she covered his mouth with hers before he could say anything more. This time he did not resist but kissed her back, harder than he had before. One of his hands entangled itself in her hair while another slid slowly down her body, pausing to caress her curves before stopping at the hem of her nightgown at her upper thigh.

He broke away long to mutter that he did not desire her pity. She replied between kisses that she _was_ doing this partly for him but mostly for herself. She thought his lips curved in a small smile at this before kissing her back with almost bruising force. His body was still tense with the strain of that night, and she felt him pouring all his anger, his pain, his hurt into his kisses.

He turned his head and focused his attention on the soft skin of her throat, licking and sucking so hard that she was sure she would see signs of his passage the next morning. The thought of him marking her was both offensive and erotic, and it felt _so_ damn good. She moaned, and he tugged her nightgown over her head. She shivered as her body came into contact with the night air, but she forgot about the air temperature when he tightened his hold on her and flipped her onto her back.

Now he gazed down at her, expression inscrutable in the shadows. "This is your final chance to stop this," he said hoarsely. "You've succeeded in helping me through that ordeal. You don't have to go through with this."

"If you stop now, I'll show you a bloody ordeal," she replied, and he said no more after that. Her hands found the top of the silky pyjamas he wore and pulled impatiently at them. With his help, they slid off easily, and Hermione sighed happily at the sensation of his bare skin against hers.

He returned to kiss her for a brief moment before lowering his head to her breasts. She ran her hands through his soft hair while he kissed and licked and even lightly bit the sensitive skin there. While one hand kneaded her other breast, the other slipped farther down, following the smooth lines of her waist and hips to the juncture between her legs.

Her breath came shorter and shorter as he rubbed and caressed her. Her hips moved with the rhythm of his touch, hard and fast. He kissed his way back to her mouth, and he murmured inarticulate sounds of desire which became more fervent when she let her hand wander down his sculpted abdomen, farther down to stroke him. She touched him gently, for she had not engaged in anything like this for a long time and was a little unsure of herself. But the noises he made were quite encouraging, and she soon established a rhythm of her own, bringing both of them very near the edge.

He whispered that he wanted to be inside her, and she murmured her assent, and as aroused as she was, she was also a little afraid. He positioned himself between her legs and slowly pushed into her, sighing as he did. She inhaled, partly from the mild ache that came because it had been so long for her, and partly from the pleasurable sensation he was producing. By the time he was fully surrounded by her moist warmth, the ache had disappeared.

They moved together, sometimes at a frenzied pace and sometimes slower in order to catch their breath. At several points she thought he would come to orgasm, but he always slowed just before that moment. They continued to kiss deeply while he thrust and she arched up to meet him, and he continued to caress her all over, so she was overwhelmed by sensation from every inch of her body. Their pace quickened again, and out of his wordless cries, she heard him breathe her name. Her legs tightened around his waist as she urged him deeper.

Then she could not breathe at all, and something burst like a river from a dam inside her. She cried out as he growled low in his throat and bit her shoulder hard. That jolt of pain joined with the wave of pleasure washing over her and added to it. He pulled out of her just before he came, so she felt a damp stickiness spread over her lower abdomen just after her own orgasm.

He lay atop her, breathing hard for a few minutes before he spoke. "I'm sorry, I didn't think it a good idea to…" he trailed off.

"It's okay. I… it's fine. I'm fine." A smile spread across her face. "I'm very fine. In fact…" She stretched a hand out to find the abandoned cloth she had used to cool his face and found it buried under a pillow. She wiped the wetness from her abdomen and thighs before handing it to him.

"Thank you." He leaned on one elbow and patted himself dry. "For everything." When he was finished, he lay beside her own his back. As he had done for the past several nights now, he set a pillow over his shoulder and held out his arm. She snuggled into the pillow and into his embrace, now sleepy.

She wanted to fret about the consequences of what they had just done and what he had thought and felt, but her brain refused to worry just yet. Her legs twined with his, and when she laid a hand on his chest, he closed his own loosely atop it. He kissed her hair, as usual, but this time when she looked up, he gave her a lingering kiss on the lips.

When she fell asleep a few minutes later, she was smiling softly.


	14. Mixed Messages

A/N: I got my review replies off shamefully late this time, but off they are! Thanks as always to everyone to takes the time to leave a review. They really make my day. Also, feel free to grumble about the shameless plot device (grin).

ON TO

Chapter Fourteen:

Before she opened her eyes to the morning, before she recalled the events of the previous night, Hermione awoke to a dull ache and winced inwardly. She did not have time to actually wonder what could have caused this sensation, though, before she came more fully awake and saw Lucius lying beside her and remembered everything that had happened.

He usually awoke before she did, but now he appeared to be sleeping, leaving Hermione in an awkward position. Did she proceed with the day as normal or did she wait until he awoke to smile softly at him and bid him good morning, perhaps with a kiss? Did she even acknowledge what had happened or did she start calling Lucius silly pet names now that they were… whatever they were?

Fortunately, at least, she did not have to agonise over the issue for long; Lucius awoke when she turned over and tugged a sheet over her bare skin. She held her breath, waiting to see how he would react to her presence. His eyes opened and locked onto hers, now a warm grey tinged with pale blue. Maybe it was the simple play of sunlight over his face as opposed to the cool moonlight of the night before, but everything about him appeared healthier, more vital now.

He smiled. She breathed a sigh of relief and smiled back.

"Are you all right," he asked in a low, almost tender voice.

Her heart fluttered at his tone, and for a moment she could not think clearly enough even to formulate a single word reply. Oh, this was going to be more dangerous than she had ever suspected, she realised.

"I'm fine, yeah. Are you… okay?"

"As well as ever. Hermione…" He hesitated and reached a hand out to touch her cheek. "I'm afraid that I… was less than attentive to you last night."

Well, how on earth was she to respond to something like that? She had certainly enjoyed last night, and if he had perhaps not showered her with attention as much as she normally liked, it was completely understandable under the circumstances.

He spared her the necessity of replying as he continued. "I wonder…" he said as he rolled onto his side, facing her so closely that she could feel his breath, "if I could make it up to you?"

The tentative smile on her face grew wider, and she blushed under his gaze. "Oh, well… okay."

He pulled her closer and pressed a long, lingering kiss to her lips. Despite the soreness between her thighs, she also felt warmth gathering there. She kissed him back, and this time, she felt as though she could spend an age just lying there, kissing him until they were both breathless and senseless. This time there was little sense of urgency, just pleasure at the way their mouths and bodies fit together.

She twined her legs through his and ran her hands up and down the length of his body. He did not possess the youthful slenderness that she was familiar with in her previous lovers; he was more solidly there under her exploring fingers. She could feel the muscles of his shoulders and back shift as his arms wrapped more firmly around her, felt the long muscles of his thighs contract as he gently pulled himself atop her. And his bum… it was an especially nice bum he had. A low noise escaped him when she stretched out her fingers and squeezed it.

For his part, he had left off kissing her mouth for the soft flesh of her neck. He whispered an apology for the marks that were already developing there, to which she responded with a soft chuckle. This time, his mouth was much softer on her collarbone and throat, soft and insistent. His lips sucked and his tongue kneaded the faintly bruised skin. She wanted to return the favour, but he seemed much too intent on her to stop now.

Just as his hands began wandering in those places where she longed to feel his touch again, a sharp tapping noise interrupted their quiet moans in the bright sunshine. Hermione sighed. Lucius looked up and behind his shoulder to the window, where an owl was rapping its beak against the glass. He drew back to give Hermione a dry look, half-annoyed and half-amused and to lay one final kiss on her before standing and crossing the room. From where she was reclined, she enjoyed the view of Lucius striding to the window, utterly unconcerned with his state of undress.

A distant part of her noted that Lucius did not pay the owl and wondered if that was significant. Apparently someone – most likely the sender of the message – had already given the owl sufficient payment for its services. She did not recognise it as Marius's own, but then, she was not sure she _could_ have identified that particular bird.

She was lounging on the pillows with a sheet draped across her midsection, still smiling a vaguely silly smile, when Lucius turned around again and the owl flew away. He was not smiling. A note of worry crept into her brain, but she could not make herself stop smiling just yet.

"Is something wrong?"

He glanced up from the letter and made his way for the wardrobe. Hermione looked upon this as a discouraging sign and began to feel distinctly uneasy. She could almost see tension flowing into his body as he walked. When he had risen from the bed, he had moved languidly, like a cat still half-asleep, graceful in its laziness and revelling in the morning sun. Now he was alert, his step quick and entire body focused on his destination.

Without even seeing his face, she could see that the Lucius Malfoy she had come to know in fits and starts was being taken over again by the crème de la crème of the Wizarding elite and Voldemort's inner circle. He selected from the armoire black robes with blood-red embroidery and pulled them on in a few, efficient movements. When he turned back to face her, her heart sank (though her libido refused to be sensible and even jumped a little). There he was, looking very much as he did in her early memories of him: white-blond hair pulled back in a crisp queue at the nape of his neck, robes buttoned up to the collar, a crimson silk cravat intricately knotted: perfectly Malfoy down to the shiny black shoes on his feet.

His expression softened a little at seeing her, and as he returned to sit beside her, she thought she spotted a glimmer of the man inside the Malfoy. "You can stay here for a little while longer, if you like." His voice was still low, still caressing, and she felt somewhat better for it. "Believe me, I am _very_ sorry to leave you like this, but I'm afraid…" He took Hermione's hand and stared at it for a bit before continuing. "We may have uninvited company here very soon."

He squeezed her hand tightly and released it, then leaned forward and shared a full, deep kiss with her. After he pulled back, he handed her the message and stood up again.

"Lucius?"

He paused at the door to regard her once more. "I'm sorry," he said and left.

Although it made no sense, and although she had nothing specific to feel sad about, Hermione felt tears welling up behind her eyes. It was not sorrow, but simple confusion and all the conflicting emotions (not to mention the hormones) that had built up so recently that poured out in the silent tears that trickled down her cheeks. She scrubbed them away impatiently with her hand and pointed her attention at the letter which had ruined their morning.

_My dear friend, _it began in very formal French

_I hope that you are enjoying your well-deserved holiday. Morocco is absolutely lovely, everything Edouard and I have heard. I cannot imagine that we should be in any rush to return home to our lonely manor. _

_I admit I cannot resist imparting a bit of gossip to an old friend like you... _

At this point, the letter became a mess of names and descriptions Hermione could not really follow but assumed to be an amusing commentary on Europe's wizarding glitterati and the social scandals which followed them across continents. She tried to retain some of the names and information in case, but one passage in particular struck her as interesting.

_One cannot go to a proper tea house, a restaurant, or any sort of social gathering without encountering regular hordes of women of a certain age accompanied by dashing young Arab men. It is a fascinating sociological phenomenon, quite everyday for this area, I understand. _

It caught her eye because she was certain the author of letter, presumably Lucius's friend Marius, was implying something he could not or would not come out and state plainly. Something about older women… she smiled at the thought of Lucius's proud ex-wife Narcissa parading around the streets clutching the arm of an exotic young boy-toy like a new accessory.

_Enough of an old man's blather. I daresay you have more interesting things to do, more interesting people to attend. I hope your holiday is not proving too dull for your high spirits, my friend, but we both know how richly you deserve a spot of leisure. Do try to enjoy yourself._

_Affectionately yours,_

_M_

There was something there too, Hermione was sure. She was certain this was the passage that was worrying Lucius so, the 'more interesting things to do, more interesting people to attend'. She doubted that Marius was making a cheeky reference to her, though she had no real evidence for that assumption, just… a feeling. Lucius would not be so visibly affected by a bit of innuendo.

She felt rather silly lying about in bed with no clothes and no companion to justify her laziness, so she pulled her nightgown hastily over her head and returned to her own bedroom to find something more appropriate to wear. The clear blue sky promised another warm day, so she drew a skirt and short tunic from her wardrobe, a matching set in dusky rose-coloured silk. Her fingers shook a little as she laced up the tunic, and she could not help comparing her clumsiness now with the graceful, effortless way Lucius had dressed earlier.

When she descended to the dining room to find breakfast ready, Lucius was reading a newspaper with a faintly surprised expression on his face and occasionally remembering a piece of fruit he had selected from a pyramid in the centre of the table. He set down the paper as soon as he saw her, and it was difficult not to drop her eyes in embarrassment, though she told herself firmly that she had no reason to feel that way. She could make out a hectic scene on the front of the paper and wondered what it depicted.

"You read the letter?"

"I did," she replied as she crossed to the table and sat down in front of the other place setting. "I take it you're expecting a troupe of Death Eaters to appear on the front lawn at any moment?" She forced her voice to sound casual as she picked up a slice of toast and began spreading jam on it. Despite her best efforts, however, she was sure he saw through her affected unconcern, especially since her damned hands would not stop shaking. She thought about asking Nifti to fetch her pack of cigarettes, wherever she had left them and decided against it, at least for the moment.

"We ought to consider ourselves lucky that we have evaded them for so long." He paused, and Hermione continued to spread jam with a vengeance. She was so intent upon her toast that she did not notice he had stopped speaking.

"Hermione."

She glanced up into his eyes and immediately looked away to squint through the nearby windows, then at the front page of the newspaper. The moving picture appeared to show the Wizengamot in full session, but she could not discern the headline. "I heard you. Lucky us. Could you pass the tea, please?"

"You're going to have to leave," he continued, ignoring her request.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his gaze fixed upon her. She did not think she could meet it just now and retain her composure. Now that she had two pieces of toast prepared, she needed something else to do with her hands. Well, if he was not going to pass the tea, she would get it herself.

"What, and leave you here?" She reached across the table, nearly upsetting the rainbow display of fruit. "Or is this one of those win-win situations where I get to escape and you get to talk your way back into your precious Lord's good graces? Well, it's hardly ideal, but you did save my life."

He grasped her outstretched arm, still clutching the handle of the teapot. "Stop it."

Her head whipped to one side to shoot him an incredulous look, but the protest she had ready died when she saw the hard expression on his face. He was not going to argue with her today, she realised. He could not spare the time or energy. She wanted to continue flinging accusations at him, anything to keep her mind occupied and distracted from the truth of the matter: the strange relationship they had formed during and even before their flight from Paris was about to come to an end.

"Then answer my question. What makes you think I'm going to just leave you to your fat here?"

He released her arm, and she pulled it back to begin pouring a cup of tea. When she looked up again, she was surprised to see him wearing a faint smile. "If you do not wish to condemn me to death, my dear, you must."

She raised an eyebrow. "Convince me."

"It's quite simple. I swore an Unbreakable Vow stating that I would deliver you into no situation I knew might bring you serious harm, and the guests this manor shall receive in what is very likely a matter of a few hours mean you the most serious harm. If I do not honour this Vow, I _will_ die, regardless of the Dark Lord's wishes concerning my ultimate fate."

She pursued her lips as she stirred milk into her tea. "You've convinced me that _I _must leave but not that you must stay." The fragrant steam from the porcelain cup greeted her and offered what little comfort it could. She inhaled deeply before taking a sip. Marius might have questionable taste in friends, but the man knew his tea.

"If they managed to find us here, they will doubtless find us anywhere we should choose to flee. Both of us stand a better chance of surviving discovery if we are not together."

He was right, of course, but she could not abandon him to the mercies of Death Eaters, no matter that he was marked as one. Even on the slim chance that they would decide to accept him back into their ranks – and that brought up another set of circumstances she would much rather not ponder – they would surely punish him soundly for his actions ever since and including his failure to win her over or kill her back in Paris.

Her mind raced as she sipped her tea, but it skipped when he reached out his hand again, this time to take hers in a tight grip. The resolute expression on his face had softened into something compassionate as he watched her.

"Please, Hermione, allow me to protect you this time. It will almost certainly be the last opportunity I will have to repay a fraction of the debt I owe you."

Part of her despised the idea of anyone protecting her, but how could she object? If only there was some way she could protect him as well. While she was sure that she could greatly aid him in a fight, she suspected that she was going to have to think of something else.

"But then what happens? Either I die in the war, or I go back to my life… and then I never hear the end of it." She barked a short laugh. "How is it that I'm still alive? How did I escape the clutches of the reviled Lucius Malfoy? How am I looking so healthy, wearing new robes and acting distinctly un-traumatised?"

He stiffened. "That is all regrettable but hardly anything I can control or alleviate."

"It'll be quite suspicious, you know, that I don't display a proper hatred of you." She tapped the fingers of her free hand on her tea cup. The future was shaping with startling clarity in front of her eyes.

"Perhaps they'll suggest it as part of therapy to treat repressed emotional distress,or perhaps they will force it on me when I testify… and believe me, there will be a trial, whether you are actually present to face the charges or not… but eventually, I can be as certain as I possibly can be, lacking the second sight, that I will have to ingest veritaserum if I do not divulge sufficiently gory details about my captivity under you."

Lucius blinked at something she had said, but then his face settled into a sceptical expression. "That's an uncharacteristically grim vision of the future for you."

She shrugged. "It will probably be administered with nothing but the best intentions, and in the unlikely case that the Ministry does not absolutely insist upon it, it is inevitable that many of the people I once regarded as friends will never trust me after I return."

Silence fell between them, and Hermione knew that he knew that she was right. The bright future once all but promised to the cleverest witch of her age was falling to ashes before their eyes. She would never again be part of the first line in the fight against Voldemort, not if she was suspected of harbouring a weakness for one of his senior Death Eaters, whether that weakness be fear or something more sinister.

"I will help you if I can," Lucius said presently. "What do you suggest?"

In fact, something had occurred to her, but now that he had asked, she could not bring herself to say it. It sounded so silly inside her head and would sound that much more ridiculous aloud. He would completely misconstrue her intentions, and why not? She was unsure of her intentions herself.

"I can see that you're thinking of something. I will do… I will consider anything in my power to help you."

She finished her tea in one gulp and set it down on the saucer harder than she meant. It clattered loudly, almost drowning out her words.

"Marry me."


	15. Less Than Traditional

A/N: This is my longest chapter yet (it could have been two… but the first would have been kinda boring), so you'd better get a drink and possibly popcorn to sustain you while you read of the latest adventures of our dynamic duo. The ice cream they have is Berthillon, and it really is fantastic. I don't know if there actually is a Berthillon stand in that part of Paris, but I beg you to allow me this artistic license (grin). If you ever get a chance to try some, you absolutely must!

On a more serious note, I may be on vacation for most of next week, so there's a distinct possibility that the next update will come rather later than usual. But don't you doubt it; there WILL be a next update. I'm having way too much fun with these two to give them a break just yet!

ON TO

Chapter Fifteen:

Lucius blinked, but to Hermione's intense relief, he did not gasp or exclaim that she was insane or, worst of all, laugh. For that alone, she could have kissed him. "Marry you? You believe that the best way for you to withstand the fallout from the discovery that you are in fact alive and well after several days in my power is for you to marry me?" His lips curved in a small smile. "Forgive me if I've being especially dense, but you'll have to elaborate."

Hermione was silent for a moment as she gathered and organised her thoughts. As she mused on her next words, she sipped her tea and glanced outside at the summery day warming the landscape. "As I see it, it may not be the _best_ way for me to handle everything… that would be for me to concoct a melodramatic tale of capture and cruelty and no few tears I would sob through at every successive questioning. It would make for a very moving trial, should it ever come to that."

At her description of such a charade, Lucius grinned widely. "If nothing else, I admire your perspicacity. Why, one might almost suspect you of possessing the second sight after all." At her inquiring look, he picked up the newspaper from where he had laid it on the table and handed it to her.

After a quick perusal of the headline article, she gasped. So for, the media had remained silent on the subject of her disappearance, probably because the Order wished to keep their search quiet. Silent until today's edition, at least.

"Yesterday," _Le Sorcier_ declared, "the Wizengamot announced that it would begin trying Death Eaters _in absentia_, beginning with the infamous Lucius Malfoy. _Le Sorcier_ has learned that Malfoy was not originally scheduled to be first for prosecution, but he is now believed to have added kidnapping, and quite likely another murder, to his litany of crimes. This time his victim is a bright, young witch, Hermione Granger, who until recently was working at the forefront on the war against You-Know-Who." The article went on to list her many virtues and accomplishments and then to resume Malfoy's many vices and crimes.

She paled. "And if I go back, I'll have to testify." Her eyes were wide as she lifted them to her companion. "I won't lie to the Wizengamot, and they'll never believe that you saved my life. We have to do this. They'll think I was magically compelled or under the Imperius curse or something, but I can worry about that later."

Until now, she had never thought to regard the legal prohibition against forcing one spouse to testify another as useful, but as she saw it, she had three choices before her. The most obvious option was that she could tell the Wizengamot the truth at Lucius's trial: that he had saved her life as she had saved his, that the only murder he had committed in her presence had been of self-defence (and had saved her life as well), and that at no point had he forced her to do anything. Having thus admitted to aiding a fugitive and failing to report his whereabouts to the Ministry and coming dangerously close to further confessing very improper conduct with the Death Eater, she would be lucky to find herself merely ostracised from society at the conclusion of the trial. If she outright refused to testify, she could add obstruction of justice to her own charges.

The second option, which remained quite tempting despite her proclamation that she would do nothing of the sort, was to lie through her teeth. It would be so easy to create a ghastly scenario the Ministry would eat up despite a complete lack of physical evidence to corroborate it. She had cried crocodile tears before to further her own ends before and would probably do it again if the situation called for it, but then, she had believed the target deserving of her deception. In this instance, she could not condemn Lucius for crimes he had not committed.

This third option, which was just beginning to coalesce in her brain, was something of a happy medium. As his legal spouse, she would simply refuse to say a word, and the Wizengamot would have no legal recourse to either force her to speak or to punish her for her silence. The media would not feel such restraint, of course, but she had been the victim of slander before and had weathered it intact. As time passed and she refused the benefits of the Malfoy name, people would forget the scandal and assume that she had been tricked into the marriage. Of course, there would be a problem if she ever wished to marry anyone else, but that was a long ways in the future.

He regarded her for a long, quiet moment as she pondered all this. Nifti was chattering to herself as she cleaned, and the birds chirped outside during the interval. Finally, he gave a small nod.

"I assume you mean to be married in the Muggle fashion. A wizarding magistrate would hardly consent to wed the infamous Lucius Malfoy and the saintly Hermione Granger. They'll want a lot of papers we do not have, which will necessitate a very large bribe."

He rose in search of parchment, apparently too impatient to wait for the house elf. He squeezed her hand. "I can do this for you, but you must be absolutely certain that it is what you want."

She swallowed and squeezed his hand back, gazing up him. "It is."

"Very well," he said brusquely, "then I have several things I must attend to in a short period of time." He released her hand and began to leave before pausing to turn back. "In order to convey your desired impression to the Ministry, I think it would be best if I destroyed some of the… more telling traces of your stay here, namely your robes."

Hermione thought about it and nodded. He was right, of course; it would not do for investigators from the Ministry to find a wardrobe full of new robes for her. Her circumstances were suspicious enough as it was.

"What about Nifti?" she asked. "If they ask her about us, she'll tell them everything."

Lucius shook his head and cast an amused glance toward the house elf, still cheerfully talking to the empty air as she cleaned. "To do so would invite harm to her masters. I trust that Marius instructed her to regard our presence here as one of his secrets she must not divulge." He returned his gaze to her and was silent for a moment. "I must leave you now. Be ready in a quarter of an hour."

She nodded and watched him disappear out of the room. The sunny breakfast nook dimmed a little without him, and doubts clouded her mind. To propose marriage like that had seemed very daring and original at the time, but now she began to wonder. Surely there was another solution she had not yet considered. If only she had a little more time, she was certain that she could have conceived of a plan a shade more reasonable.

And how was it, she wondered, that he would allow the Malfoy name to be so soiled? Not that she considered herself an unwelcome addition to a family, but surely his pure-blood relations would be horrified to learn that a Muggle-born would share their name. She stifled a giggle at the thought of what Draco Malfoy would say at learning that she would become, in name if not in function, his stepmother. That idea alone almost made up for the years of rivalry and insults at school.

As she sat and sipped tea and demolished the fruit pyramid, it occurred to her that this marriage ploy would create as many new difficulties as it would alleviate. While she was certain that British wizarding law coincided with most law on the general notion of spousal immunity from testimony, she had no idea how far that immunity extended.

And legal details aside, if it was believed that she had married him under duress, would that annul the immunity? After all, actions undertaken while a subject was under Imperius were could not be held against the subject. Could they refuse to recognise the marriage? But no, the only way they would know for certain if she had been compelled was if they found evidence of a spell (which they would not) or her own testimony on the matter.

Her head was starting to spin. After the trial, she would have to live with the Malfoy name… for how long? She could request an annulment as soon as the trial was finished; another important aspect of most legal systems was an injunction against double jeopardy. That is, if Lucius underwent trial once for his latest offences, he could not be put on trial again for them, even with new evidence. Or she could wait until she met someone she wanted to date. Considering popular opinion of Lucius Malfoy at the moment, she doubted that she would have much trouble obtaining an annulment or divorce… but then doing so would rake up the scandal again, even if she waited years before taking action.

No, she told herself sternly, she would not talk herself out of this. She could cope with the repercussions of this if he could cope with the shame it would heap upon his name. The only immediate threat was the reaction of his high-society friends and family, especially those who would not be averse to killing Hermione to restore honour to the Malfoy name. Well, she had dealt with Death Eaters trying to kill her and her friends for too long now. She could handle a few bad-tempered aristocrats… and there was the possibility, however remote, that his name could help her advance in whatever field she eventually chose.

Her rambling thoughts were interrupted when Nifti made her way over to the table to inquire if Miss wanted anything – sandwiches, a book, a blanket to take on a picnic? Hermione shook her head.

"No, thank you, Nifti." She was about to dismiss her when something occurred to her. "Nifti, I think Mister Malfoy and I will be leaving here very soon, and I just wanted to thank you for being so helpful while we stayed here."

Nifti's eyes grew to the size of saucers, and a trembling grin spread over her wrinkled face. "Miss is too kind," she warbled. "Nifti is just doing her job. Miss is too generous, Nifti is not deserving it. Oh, Nifti will miss Miss… and Master Malfoy, of course," she finished a bit lamely.

Hermione smiled. "Nifti _does_ deserve it for welcoming strangers into her home." She hesitated, and her smile wavered. "There may be people who come here asking about Mister Malfoy and me." Although at first she had thought of Ministry officials, it hit her at that moment that Lucius's Death Eater (former?) associates were very likely to question the house elf and probably much more harshly.

"Nifti is knowing all about people coming with questions, Miss. Nifti is used to them. Nifti must keep Master Marius's secrets and that means keeping Miss a secret. Don't worry, Nifti will keep all the secrets."

That was one less thing to worry about, at least. Hermione looked down at her rose-coloured ensemble and thought with a wry smile that she would never have believed that she would be married in pink. The state of her attire would be rather suspicious, she realised, but then, it could be concluded perhaps that Lucius would not want his… whatever the media would make her out to be… slave, perhaps, or captive in filthy, worn garments. After all, he had obviously married her in order to keep her quiet, and he probably had not wished to be seen even among Muggles with an unkempt bride.

She tried reading the newspaper while she waited to Lucius to return but found that she could not focus on the words. Instead, she stared outside the window at the scenery she expected never to see again. The sun shone gaily on the green hills as if today was another ordinary day of summer, a day for flowers to blossom and berries begin to ripen between the leaves and thorns of the bushes which flourished at this altitude. The valley and the lake she had visited would be beautiful again today, drowning in green and gold.

"One more thing, Nifti," she called, "would you please relay my… our thanks to Marius and Edouard for granting us the use of their lovely home?"

While she had stayed here, she had almost forgotten about the existence of an outside world even as she fretted over the consequences of her flight from it. It had been a sort of vacation, and she had tried not to think about how worried everyone who cared about her must be. She felt guilty about that but reminded herself that she would see most of them again soon. Perhaps she would pen a letter to her flatmates in Paris, letting them know that she was still alive and well. Flore would love to hear that she had married Lucius, she thought.

A few minutes later, Lucius entered the breakfast nook again, wearing clothes that could pass as an expensive Muggle suit – a black suit coat with thin crimson pinstripes, matching trousers, an ivory-coloured silk shirt, and a dark red cravat and waistcoat. "Everything is arranged. Are you ready?"

She nodded and stood. With a slight bow, he offered his arm, and she took it. The familiar sensation of Apparition swept over her, and the next thing she knew, sunlight filtered through a leafy canopy was streaming down on her and the air smelled of verdure and faintly of dust. From a distance, she could hear the sounds of busy traffic, but all she could see at present was a rather thin forest stretching in every direction. Birds chirped, and a startled rabbit scampered into the underbrush.

It was a pretty place, but she did not see how they were going to wed in the middle of a wood. She did not quite dare ask if he had made a mistake, so she asked in her most casual tone where they were.

"We are in the _bois de Boulogne_," he replied, "a few minute's walk from the _mairie _of this arrondissement." It was there, she assumed, at the central office for this particular quarter of Paris, that Lucius would bribe a government official into performing the marriage ceremony.

As they walked toward away from the heart of the wood, they were quiet, each engaged in his or her private thoughts. Hermione was normally comfortable with such silence, but there were so many last-minute questions she wanted to ask. She did not know where to start, but finally she worked up her courage to break the silence.

"What's going to happen to you? Are you going to…" she swallowed, "to try to get back in with Voldemort?"

He glanced down at her with an unreadable expression. "The less you know about my future plans, the better for the both of us."

"Fair enough. Er… what about your family? I mean," she added quickly, "what are they going to think about this?"

That little smile she had come to know surfaced at the mention of his relations. "I'm sure you can imagine the outcry for yourself. Those people who have so far ignored your existence will despise it, but I'm certain you will prove capable of handling them."

She laughed briefly, and silence fell again as they made their way to the outer edge of the wood. They emerged to the familiar sight of skyscrapers and the tiny Parisian cars jammed bumper-to-bumper in the streets, cafés and people going about their lives. Some of those people hurried down the street and others strolled, basking in the sun.

Her heart lifted a little at the vista in front of her, the city she had grown to love. It _was_ ridiculously romantic to be married here, even if it was a marriage of … of legal convenience to this man who might like her a bit more than he once did but surely did not love her. She looked up at him striding beside her, tall and sure to the point of arrogant, looking a bit overdressed and old-fashioned in the business section of town but not so much that anyone gave him a second glance.

"You've asked me this question a couple of times now, but… are you sure _you_ want to do this?" she asked after some internal debate. She was not sure that she wanted to hear the answer, but the curiosity was driving her insane. He had acted so… neutral about the whole thing, treating it like a business transaction from which he stood neither to gain advantage nor to incur disadvantage.

His stride remained as fluid as ever, but she noted surprise in his expression when he looked at her. "In fact, I do not wish to do this thing, both for reasons you doubtless have thought of and others… perhaps, you are not in a position to imagine."

She was right. She definitely did not want to hear that. His reasons, she was sure, were manifold and probably somewhat justified, but dim wave of pain rose inside her. So he was just doing this to placate her, it seemed. God forbid he should actually wish to… delete that thought. It was not as if she wanted to marry a Death Eater twice her age anyway.

"But all of those reasons," he continued, "are overruled by two simple considerations. One is of course the Vow I swore to you; while I do not believe I would deliver you into serious bodily harm if I did not wed you as you have asked, you have persuaded me that it _would_ pose some danger to you to leave you completely vulnerable to the Ministry's inquiries."

His expression softened a little when he offered his next reason. "Setting aside the Vow, though, I owe you a great debt. I do not know if this will balance matters between us, but it will certainly go a long way toward repaying you for saving my life. So I will endure the taunts and barbs of society and the stain on the Malfoy name until you decide to petition for divorce or annulment, at which time I will endure the humiliation when yet another wife tires of me." This last bit he said with a wry grin, taking the sting out of his words.

Instead of being sensible and leaving the subject alone, Hermione pursued it deeper into 'things she did not want to know' territory. "If none of this had happened… if we had met under completely different circumstances, and… I don't know." She was staring at her shoes but looked up now, biting her lip and blushing a little. "Do you… Could you ever imagine marrying me in any other situation?"

He stopped and turned to regard her. No, he was _scrutinising_ her. His eyes crawled over her, seeming to take her measurements to the nanometre and to read every thought in her head. She did not realise he was taking slow steps toward her and that she was backing up until her shoulders bumped up against a wall.

"You desire to know," he drawled softly, "if I can fathom any circumstances under which I might be persuaded to wed you? Let us analyse the question…"

He held one hand up and raised one finger. "First of all, you would have to come from a pureblood family or at least have accomplished something so singular that all of wizarding society could forget about your unfortunate heritage."

"Or I could rearrange the letters of my name into a clever anagram, so no one would know what my heritage was." she muttered.

A grin flashed over Lucius's face, but he did not allow himself to be deterred. He held up a second finger. "Another thing – your politics might not have to mirror mine exactly, but I would never hear the end of it if my wife was known to have once engaged in a campaign for house elf rights… unless, of course, she succeeded in passing the laws she formulated through the Wizengamot, in which case I would be forced to admire her for her effective political machinations."

By the time he finished his second point, he had approached her close enough that his breath stirred her hair. She did not know what to say or even how she felt after such a statement, but a moment later she mustered up a matching grin and a mischievous tone. "Are you saying that I could be a ginger, freckled Weasley and the impetuous behind a law for the humane treatment and minimum wage for house elves?"

He traced a finger along her cheekbone. "If you were still vivacious, clever, amusing, passionate, so easily lost in a book and so beautiful in the midst your anger, then yes, I might nevertheless be persuaded to wed you." He had barely finished speaking when he leaned in further and kissed her. His lips were soft against hers until she pulled him deeper into the kiss. The worn brick at her back scraped her shoulders and her scalp, but she could not have cared less.

One hand cupped her face while the other wrapped around her waist and pressed her body close to his. As a witch, Hermione rarely took much notice of other people's physical size; it was unnecessary when a flick of her wand and a few Latin words could subdue a cave troll. But now that she could feel his weight against her, holding her tight to the wall, she felt strangely delicate… fragile and completely at the mercy of his every whim. It was an unsettling sensation but not entirely unwelcome. It reminded her of being pinned under him the night before, naked and panting and sweating…

She gently broke the kiss to take a deep breath and calm her speeding heart and nerve endings almost painfully sensitive. He leaned his forehead against hers for a moment as he caught his breath and then gave her a slow smile.

"As far as sham marriages go," he whispered, "I believe there have been far more unpleasant in the history of institution."

She breathed a short laugh as she righted herself and straightened her clothes. "That's exactly what it will be, won't it?" Her voice was thoughtful, without a trace of bitterness. "All this time I've been assuming that you would be… well, removed from society for a significant length of time."

He chuckled. "Yes, even the Ministry might think to raise questions about the validity of our marriage if we were perfectly capable of residing together and chose not to do so." With a small bow, he offered his arm, and she took it. She wondered how they looked to passers-by, walking together down the street in their slightly out-of-place garb.

When he did not answer her implied question, she pressed the issue. "So you also believe that you will be outside your usual public circle?"

"As I said earlier," he replied, voice rather harder now, "it is best that you know as little as possible about my plans for the future."

"Right. I… right. Agreed."

They had little more chance for conversation before the reached the _mairie_, the central government office for this part of town. A French flag flew from the top of the edifice, and a police officer sat just inside the gate. The guard nodded at them when Lucius strode past without a single glance in her direction. A sign affixed to the building's façade pointed them toward their destination, up three taxing flights of narrow stairs to room panelled in heavy dark wood, lacking both air conditioning and a window of decent size.

Hermione tightened her grip on Lucius's arm as he spoke with the secretary on duty who appeared far more interested in leaning into the wake of the room's single fan than collecting the usual paperwork for such an occasion. They were waved through to an adjoining office, where a man Hermione took to be the magistrate they required sat at a desk and looked mildly surprised to see someone come through the door. The heat wave washing over Paris was evidently working in their favour for the moment, lulling even these officials into a perpetual doze.

"_Bonjour_," the man said with a nod in their general direction. "I understand you are here to be married?" At their affirmative, he fished around in a drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper. "This is the list of documents you will need. Additionally, the law requires that you have published banns at least ten days in advance. If you have not yet published the marriage banns, I can tell you how to do it, but you will have to postpone your wedding for ten days."

At this, Hermione tried not to look nervous until she saw Lucius engaged in a most surprising bit of acting. He was _blushing_, fiddling with his cravat, and refusing to look the magistrate directly in the eyes. She could not imagine why he was acting so oddly until he spoke.

"Yes, I understand the requirements, but you see…" He removed a handkerchief from an inner pocket and dabbed his forehead. "my fiancée and were very recently mugged, and we have yet to receive replacements for the papers we lost."

The magistrate raised an eyebrow and cast a slightly more alert eye on the pair in front of him. "I am sorry to hear that, sir, but without the paperwork…" He shrugged. "Come back when you have your papers, and I will be happy to wed you."

"That's the problem," Lucius insisted, still twiddling his fingers. "We absolutely must leave for England tomorrow morning and…" He dropped his eyes and actually managed to sound contrite. "She's always wanted to be married in Paris. I don't know when we'll be able to return. Business is so hectic these days. This all my fault for putting it off for so long."

Taking her cue, Hermione bit her lip and looked down to her hands lying in her lap. She blinked her eyes rapidly and sighed. It had been a while since she had forced herself to cry, but she thought she could manage it again if necessary. There, tears were forming in the corners of her eyes right on schedule.

She glanced up at Lucius and gave him a wavering smile. "It doesn't matter that much, darling. We can wait until we return home… it's just a silly romantic fantasy of mine." She sniffled and reached out a hand, which he took and squeezed. After exchanging what she hoped appeared a loving glance with her fiancé, she shifted her gaze to the magistrate. "Please forgive us for having bothered you. You were our last resort… we were just being silly."

Now the magistrate was definitely awake. He looked from one to the other, obviously conflicted. "Of course, we wish to give our visitors the most pleasant experience possible. Perhaps…"

When he trailed off, Lucius dropped Hermione's hand and rummaged around in another inner pocket for a moment before producing a handful of Galleons. She kept her eyes lowered, so the magistrate would not notice her surprised expression. "I… this may sound terribly corrupt, sir," he began, "but you see, I work for an international jeweller, and I wonder if… if a small token of our appreciation might persuade you to help us." His voice took on a sincere ring as he continued. "Please, we're doing nothing wrong or illegal. The young lady is of legal age, and neither of us is already wed. We just want a memory we can cherish for the rest of our lives and maybe a good story for our children."

It was very difficult to restrain the laughter that welled up inside Hermione at the mention of 'the rest of our lives' and especially at 'our children'. She took a deep breath and prayed it would be taken for a heartfelt sigh. She was still gazing at her lap, as she did not trust her face not to betray her just yet, when she heard the magistrate reply that he would perform the ceremony for them and fill out the paperwork after they left. He was taking the bribe when she looked up, and she offered another tremulous smile.

"Thank you," she gushed, "You are too generous. This is so beautiful. Thank you so much."

After a few more minutes of tender declarations of eternal gratitude, the magistrate called in the secretary and officially began the ceremony for a civil marriage. It was brief, as Hermione knew it must be, but it struck her nevertheless how so few words could change two lives so drastically.

As they stood side by side in front of the desk, the magistrate explained the rights and responsibilities entailed by the marriage state while the secretary lounged in one corner. Then he asked if Monsieur Lucius Malfoy consented to take Miss Hermione Granger as his wife and whether Miss Hermione Granger consented to the same. She let herself be carried away by the moment, fully aware that she was entering into this marriage for its legal convenience but unable to repress the smile that tugged at her lips (even if she had wanted to repress it).

"_Au nom de la loi,"_ the magistrate said in what Hermione suspected was a formula of steadfast tradition, "_nous vous déclarons unis par le mariage."_ In accordance with another long-lived tradition, the newlyweds sealed the ceremony with a kiss. While they signed the registry, the magistrate filled out and handed them a _livret de mariage_, where they could record further developments in their new family. The magistrate and the secretary wished them well, but all Hermione could see at the moment was her new husband.

"Congratulations, Mister and Missus Malfoy," the magistrate said as he shook Lucius's hand for the last time. In an unexpected demonstration of friendliness, he kissed Hermione's cheeks in farewell.

She was in a daze as they left the _mairie_ until the hot summer sunshine hit them. Then she blinked and squinted into the golden flood. "I fear we do not have the time for a glass of champagne," Lucius said, "but I have it from reliable sources that there is a vendor nearby selling the world's best ice cream. Shall we, Mrs. Malfoy?" Hermione noticed that he was wearing a rather silly smile and guessed that hers was probably sillier.

"I think ice cream would be perfect."

No, it was nothing like she had ever imagined her dream wedding, but it _was_ Paris. And the ice cream was very good.


	16. Old Friends in New Places

A/N: Sorry I'm late with this! I actually had it all written by my usual update date, but whilst on vacation, I forget the power cord for my laptop and used all the juice in a matter of hours. Sad face. But now here's an update! Happy face! I suspect some of you may hate me after this. Evil face. The next update should come out in the next week but maybe not exactly on time. I'll do my best!

Chapter Sixteen:

They ate their ice cream in the funny double cones as they meandered through the streets, not knowing or caring where their steps took them. All they had to do to return to Marius's home was to duck into a shadowed alley and Apparate back. Hermione tested out the names "Mrs. Malfoy" and "Hermione Malfoy" and "Mrs. Hermione Malfoy" even as she knew she would never allow herself to use them around anybody. An essential part of her plan would be her apparent reluctance to remind the world that she was technically wed to Lucius. So she would keep her maiden name, but that did not mean she could not whisper the words to herself.

One corner of Lucius's mouth quirked in a half-smile, but it did not reach his eyes. She could see that he was deep in thought, probably forgetting their wedding already in his plotting for the next day or two. It irked her a little, but for the most part she was content to tuck her arm into his and gaze at the people and buildings around them. She was _married_. It would not change much at all in her day-to-day life, but there it was. Married. It was so unlike anything she had ever imagined. Her husband should be beaming and stealing kisses, not frowning to himself with that wrinkle in his forehead.

Their lazy stroll lasted only as long as their ice cream, which disappeared quickly in the hot sun. He asked if she were ready to return, and, because she could not think of a good reason to stay here any longer, she replied that she was. Just as she had predicted, he steered them into an unused alley, withdrew the wand secreted in his jacket, and muttered the Apparition spell.

The moment the disorientation cleared, Hermione noticed a thin violet line like a pulsing wire outlining the windows and door visible from the sitting room. It looked like some kind of ward had been activated, and the muttering she heard from Lucius seemed to confirm her guess. He drew her roughly to him and held her tight for a brief second. She thought she heard him whisper, "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Malfoy," and was about to inquire what he meant when he shoved her away again. It was not an especially hard push, but she was so surprised that she fell back and tripped over her feet to fall to the floor.

The plush carpet had cushioned her landing, and no objects had lain in her path. She winced as she clambered to her feet and rubbed her bottom, all the while gazing at him with her eyes wide and questioning. He did not give her a chance to say anything, though, before he grabbed the collar of her tunic, pulled her near, and then gave her a shake so violent that the delicate fabric tore. Her eyes began to well up with tears of confusion at his sudden, bizarre change in behaviour and the cold expression that had settled over his face. He might as well have been wearing a mask for all she could read him.

"What are you doing?" she finally exclaimed, but he gave no response except another shove that sent her sprawling into the sofa. It teetered menacingly but kept its balance. The sharp pain that shot through her lower back woke her a little from her shocked daze. "Stop it!" she shouted. "I don't know what you're doing, but you're hurting me!"

He brandished the wand, and she was scrambling over the back edge of the sofa, fearful of what he might do next when the nearest door burst open. She peeked her head around the side of the sofa to see who had entered and gasped when she recognised her former professor, Minerva McGonagall. It was a rare thing to catch the witch in a temper, but it was terrifying. Behind her, the imposing Kingsley Shacklebolt slid inside and aimed his wand at Lucius. Two other witches and a wizard she did not recognise swarmed inside, followed, to her amazement, by Ron and Harry.

"Drop the wand, Malfoy!" Ron cried, holding his own wand with admirable steadiness. His face was bright red, and his hair stuck straight up. Harry looked only a very little bit more composed, almost shaking with rage as he looked around for Hermione. She was glad that she was not in the middle of that scene; she feared her face might give away more than she liked.

"There she is!"

She could not see what Lucius was doing, but he must have obeyed Ron's order. At least, no one was firing curses at him, and Minerva was edging her way across the room to where Hermione looked out from behind the sofa. The others kept their wands trained on Malfoy as Kingsley stepped forward, presumably to get the wand away from Lucius.

"Seven against one," Lucius observed in his laziest drawl, "you certainly have me at your mercy." She shifted just enough to see him glance up at a silver clock marked with symbols she could not decipher. "If I were you, I should press my advantage while I still had it. You're likely to find it fleeting."

Hermione could see Ron's jaw tighten, but much to his credit, he did not otherwise respond to the baiting. "We are authorised to use necessary force to neutralise any Death Eater threat we come across," Harry said through gritted teeth as if by rote.

"This will be a lot easier if you come without a fuss," he added. "We just want to get Hermione somewhere safe where she can forget all about you."

_Not likely_, she thought and felt a flash of annoyance at the idea that she would be carted somewhere like an object or a helpless animal.

Lucius chuckled at this. "You'll find that rather more difficult than you imagine," he replied in an eerie echo of her own thoughts. Although the sofa blocked much of the scene from her view, she could see her two friends stiffen at the implication.

"Hand over the wand, Malfoy," Ron growled.

But before Lucius could respond with another taunt, Ron apparently lost patience and disarmed the man with _expelliarmus_ and then Summoned the wand.

"Bravo," the older man commented, sounding as unruffled as ever. "I'll be sure to watch the papers for news of your elevation to the Order of Merlin. Their standards are so low these days, I wouldn't be surprised if even a Weasely could gain admittance."

She thought she saw a scuffle and over that racket, heard Kingsley order silence in his deep voice. "Since you won't come peacefully, Malfoy," he began, but he never got to finish the threat.

As Minerva left the unfolding confrontation and came to kneet next to Hermione, a sharp crack sounded the next room over. Instinctively, Hermione pulled the professor and headmistress down next to her on the floor. They peered around the far edge of the sofa to see a group of masked and black-robed wizards emerge from the breakfast nook. All Hermione could see was the group of her rescuers, for so they probably fancied themselves, rushed toward the arch between the two rooms and drove them back into the kitchen. The sounds of curses and grunts and the muffled thumps of falling people filled the air.

Hermione felt maddeningly useless without a wand of her own. She had drawn her friends here, and now she could not help defend them.

"Are you well, Hermione?" McGonagall asked in a whisper as she fired off a nasty red tongue of flame over the sofa.

Hermione touched her ripped tunic and nodded. Was that what Lucius had been doing, making the scene believable for the intruders the wards had warned him were coming? No time to ponder that now. "I'm fine, headmistress. What's going on?"

"I should think," Minerva replied when she was not cursing a Death Eater who had strayed much too close for comfort, "that should be obvious."

In the midst of the crossfire, Ron dashed over to their position. "Oi, Hermione! Are you all right?"

Hermione realised in a flash that she would have to endure this question repeated for a very long time. "I'm fine. We can hardly see anything back here… what's going on in the kitchen?"

Ron reached into his robes and pulled out a welcome sight to Hermione's eyes, her faithful little wand. "Go and see for yourself. Bet you've been missing this."

Despite the deadly solemnity of the situation, Hermione felt a grin steal across her face. "A little. Thanks, Ron." She gave him a quick hug before plucking the wand from his hand and wrapping her fingers around it in her usual grip. "Headmistress?"

The other woman nodded.

"Let's go."

Even as they reclaimed their opposite sides, Hermione could not help but feel relief that, disarmed as he was, Lucius was not a central target in the ensuing struggle. If they were less than enthusiastic about protecting him, his fellow Death Eaters at least drew the brunt of the fire away from him. She did not doubt that the Order members wanted to capture and arrest Lucius, but survival was now the main priority.

As it went with all the firefights she ever experienced, the battle became a muddy mishmash in her memory. She remembered the feelings intensely – the adrenaline rush, the anger, the fear for her life and that of her friends, and the focus – but she could not have said what spells she used or who she had saved at the last minute and who had saved her. She did recall felling a Death Eater intent upon cursing Harry as he screamed and cast spell after spell at Lucius and recalled with a shudder the brief but powerful urge she had fought off to Stun Harry as well so he would not hurt her… husband. Harry's concentration soon shifted to other Death Eaters, these armed with wands and trying very hard to kill him.

One of the witches she did not recognise fell and did not get up, but she still lived when they finally Disapparated. Hermione wondered if anyone else had noticed that the Death Eaters, nominally on Lucius's side, pushed and pulled him about quite rudely, as if annoyed with the necessity of defending him. She did not know exactly what to think, was too occupied with keeping herself alive to think, but she hoped they would not hurt him too much.

From where she stood, throwing hexes at Death Eaters like she was born to it, she could feel and sometimes see Lucius's gaze on her. There was so much she wanted to say and ask and absolutely no time for any of it.

"Don't worry about Malfoy," Harry whispered to her when they found themselves side by side. He had caught her staring hard at him and had grossly misinterpreted the sentiment behind the look. "I know you want revenge, and I promise you'll get it, but…"

"I know," she interrupted and stifled a hysterical urge to laugh. This was _Harry_ preaching prudence at her? After their years together and after what she had just witnessed from him, attacking an unarmed man? She realised that she would have said the exact same words to him, had their places been switched. "We have to make it out alive in order to wreak our vengeance."

He flashed her a smile, and her heart lifted to see it. This was one young man who had grown up far too quickly and who had somewhere stopped smiling enough along the way. "Right. Like I have to tell you."

They drited apart again in the chaos of battle, but it buoyed Hermione's spirits to know that she was among friends again. A new lover was always exciting, but old friends were… comforting. Stable. Reliable, at least most of the time. She just hoped they would remain her stable and comforting friends after the inevitable announcement she had to make.

The Death Eaters did not stay long, did not put up as much of a fight as Hermione had expected from the state she had seen Lucius in but left with their comrade in tow after retreating out another door and then Disapparating from there. Ron and Harry crowded around Hermione as soon as they could afford to take the attention away from the Death Eaters while the others tended to the fallen witch. The fight and the strange ups-and-downs of the day hit Hermione like a ton of bricks, and she was suddenly exhausted.

"How long have you been here?"

"What did he do to you?"

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Is there anything we can do?"

"How did he…"

"Why did he…"

"What…"

"Why…"

Hermione fell into the sofa and dropped her head into her hands. "Please," she said, "stop it."

McGonagall strode over to the trio, looking down at them with a worried expression. "Let her be, boys. She needs peace and quiet, and if you can't give her that, maybe you should go see if Kingsley needs any help."

Ron swallowed and flushed, and Harry looked away. Hermione gave her a shaky smile.

"Besides, we'll hear everything we need to know at the trial."

Oh God.

"The trial?" Hermione asked, feigning ignorance. It was unlikely that Lucius-the-captor would have allowed his captive access to the daily paper or keep her up to date on the latest news.

"Yes, it's all been decided," Minerva replied. She pursed her lips, and Hermione wondered if perhaps her former professor did not entirely approve of the trials. "Known associates of You-… of Voldemort are going to be tried by the Wizengamot."

"Tried? But… the Ministry can't expect they'll show up. I mean… I know they're Death Eaters and all, but aren't they entitled to some sort of defence?"

Ron's head jerked up, and he gaped. "Entitled to a defence? Hermione, he held you captive. He…" He gestured at her tunic. "He hurt you. And you're going to tell the whole world what he did."

"I know how strongly you feel about house elf rights," Harry continued, "but they're _Death Eaters_. They're murderers."

"I know," Hermione said in a small voice. "I know who they are."

Harry looked vaguely ashamed and glanced away again. Minerva patted her shoulder. "No one's questioning that, Hermione. Now, you don't have to say anything yet… the trial starts tomorrow, but it will be at least a week before they will require your presence."

Hermione took a deep breath. Now was as good a time as any to break the news. "I can't."

Ron exhaled sharply. "What d'you mean, you can't? You have to!"

_You've got enough on Lucius to sentence him to life in prison,_ she wanted to scream¸_ you don't need a kidnapping charge on top of that_. She did not scream but repeated herself quietly. "I can't. I'm sorry."

"I'm sure it must be very hard," Minerva said in a sympathetic voice, "but Ron is correct. If we're going to bring Mr. Malfoy to justice, we must know the full extent of his crimes toward you."

_There were no crimes! He saved my life, and I saved his_. "I understand, but I cannot testify against him." She dropped her eyes to her hands, fidgeting in her lap.

"They'll make you," Harry said suddenly. He did not sound at all pleased by the prospect. On the contrary, he sounded weary. "If you don't, they'll just charge you with something and then pour veritaserum down your throat until you talk."

Hermione, Ron, and Minerva looked at Harry in unison, each wearing expressions of varying degrees of surprise. Minerva wore that unhappy look again while Ron just looked shocked. They worked together fairly closely these days, but Hermione doubted that Harry would ever forget the bitter treatment he had received at the hands of the Ministry.

"I'm sure you're right, Harry, but this time they cannot do that. Even the Ministry must follow the law… unless there have been changes recently that I've not heard about."

"What do you mean, they cannot?" Ron asked, frowning.

Before she had mustered up the courage to answer his question, Kingsley announced that they could leave. The witch was leaning on his arm, ashen but on her feet.

"We can talk about this later," McGonagall said firmly as they all stood and readied themselves to Apparate. "Right now we have to get Hermione to a Healer."

The very thought of enduring a physical and mental examination made Hermione dizzy with fatigue. "Please, I'm fine. I could do with a bit of rest. We can visit a Healer tomorrow if you insist."

"Very well, but don't think I will not hold you to that," McGonagall replied with more than a trace of her old sternness. "Ron, we'll send her home with you. Your mother is the best nurse I know. Harry, you may go with them if you two promise not to bother Hermione." They promised, and all three of them Apparated to the Burrow, now protected by enhanced wards she could feel brush past her.

No, she did not want tea, did not want a bite of something, did not even want to say hello to anyone. She wanted to sleep. After a warm welcome and all these inquiries, Mrs. Weasely banished the boys and bustled Hermione upstairs to Ginny's room, currently unoccupied. It was cramped – in the Burrow, that went without saying – and Ginny had the most… curious taste in interior decorating, but her bed was soft and piled with bright, mismatched quilts, so different from the clean lines and elegance of Marius's home. She fell asleep before Mrs. Weaseley finished welcoming her back.


	17. Back Into the World

A/N: This hasn't turned out to be quite the chapter I thought it would be, but I'm happy to report that my writing schedule is slowly shifting back to normal. Let us rejoice! I was in a slump for most of this week until I made a revelation, and now I'm very excited to be writing again. Yay!

As always, read, enjoy, and review! All readers have my sincerest thanks, but reviewers get EXTRA sincerest thanks. And doesn't everyone want EXTRA sincerest thanks?

ON TO:

Chapter Seventeen:

"Now, Mr. Grimpole," Mrs. Weasely said in the firm tone Hermione had heard her take so often with her own red-headed brood, "you may sit here and ask Hermione your questions, but you are _not_ to badger her, do you hear me? For Merlin's sake, the girl has not eaten a proper English breakfast in ages, and I can only imagine what scraps Malfoy saw fit to throw to her."

It was a strangely comical scene that Hermione walked into that morning after a long night and little sleep. She had dropped off immediately the night before, but between the ghoul in the attic, her nightmares – which had made their triumphant return now that she was sleeping alone again – and her ceaselessly wandering mind, she awoke groggy and exhausted when the sun pierced her cosy room.

The scents of frying bacon, toast, eggs, and other wonderful food drifted up to her and brought her out of bed to find a tall, skinny man with a dour look sitting ramrod straight at the table. She hesitated before entering the kitchen; she had hoped that sympathy and concentration on other matters would delay this moment for a few more days to allow her time to perfect the approach she would take to this, what she assumed was an interview with one of the barristers working on Malfoy's prosecution.

But then, things never worked out the easiest possible way. Mrs. Weasely brightened at Hermione's entry and asked her how she had slept while laying out plates and dishes and silverware for breakfast. Hermione wondered who else was awake and at home. It was strange to see the breakfast table so empty, but perhaps the barrister's presence had repelled the usual crowd.

She considered telling the older woman about her nightmares and decided against it. That would mean explaining when and how they had started, and Hermione had already made up her mind to tell the world at large as little as possible about her time with Lucius. Perhaps she would visit with a Healer if the nightmares did not abate, but she certainly was not going to divulge in front of this attorney.

More than once while Mrs. Weasely was serving Hermione her breakfast, she noticed Mr. Grimpole open his mouth as if to begin the interview and snap it shut after a glare from the lady of the house. As weary, as nervous, and as generally uncomfortable as she was, Hermione had to smile when she saw that exchange.

But she could not prolong breakfast indefinitely, and when Hermione had slowed down to sipping a mug of tea, Mrs. Weasely gave a reluctant nod of acquiescence to the man's inquiring look. She did not leave, though, and instead stayed to wash dishes and organise the kitchen and, Hermione suspected, perform every task she could think of in order to stay and supervise the interview, though Mr. Grimpole probably could have requested that she leave at any minute.

She had expected that things would at least begin easily enough, but there too she was mistaken. The very first question Mr. Grimpole asked threw her for a loop, which she took as a bad omen for the rest of the interview.

"For the record, could you please state your name and occupation?" He was arranging his parchment and quill and odd little satchel and appeared more intent on rummaging through her belongings than on her answer. Because he was thus occupied, he did not see the slightly panicked look that flitted over Hermione's face. Oh God. Her name.

"It's… I might as well tell you now," she said with a sigh.

Mr. Grimpole looked up from his notes wearing such a puzzled expression that Hermione wanted to laugh. His skeletally thin hands stopped whatever they had been doing mid-air, and he tilted his head at her.

"I'm glad that to hear that you've decided to cooperate," he began slowly, "but you really must state your name. For the record. Then we can move on to whatever it is you might as well share." His quill hung expectantly above a thick roll of parchment, every bit as pale and narrow as the man to whom it belonged.

"That's just it. My name… it's complicated." She doubted that married women were actually required to take their husband's name, not anymore, but this was as good a time as any to break the news. "You see, while we were… away, I was…" It was even harder to say than she had imagined it to be.

Mrs. Weasely was absently rubbing a towel over a plate long since dry and pretending not to listen. Hermione took a deep breath. "I was married to Mr. Malfoy."

The plate dropped, repaired an instant later with a charm. The quill began scribbling furiously. Mr. Grimpole's pale eyes bugged out, and his mouth hung open. He clamped his jaw shut and lowered his eyes to his notes, and Hermione could hear him taking a few calming breaths. When he returned his gaze to her, he looked only slightly less astounded.

"Married! But why? How? By whom were you two wed? Under whose authority?" His voice rose as he spoke until it squeaked at the end.

"Please, Mr. Grimpole…" Mrs. Weasely called out in a reproving tone.

Though the other woman was turned around, Hermione cast a grateful smile at her back.

"Yes, of course, I apologise for my outburst." To her surprise, the man really did sound regretful, though she wondered if he were sorrier at the loss of his professional demeanour than at the possibility that he had upset her. "Let us continue."

Hermione sat with her hands demurely folded, waiting for his next questions, but they did not come right away. The barrister sorted through his papers and his lips moved soundlessly as he organised his thoughts. She wondered how long she would be waiting at this table and how long Mrs. Weasely could continue to invent tasks for herself in the kitchen.

Finally, Mr. Grimpole was ready to proceed. "Very well, Miss… Mrs. Malfoy." He said the last two words slowly in a tone of complete disbelief and no little revulsion. It occurred to Hermione to wonder whether Mr. Grimpole were Muggle-born, like herself.

"Please," she interrupted, "Call me…" She hesitated. "Ms. Granger." Certain as she was that the wizarding world had not taken to that title as strongly as the Muggle world had, she decided then and there that they would just have to get used to it. It would be technically inaccurate to call herself 'Miss' anything, but she had resolved not to use the Malfoy name.

"Yes, of course," he replied and her guess that he might be Muggle born was reinforced by his lack of surprise at the term. "Ms. Granger… how did the marriage between you and Mr. Malfoy come to pass?"

"We were married in Muggle Paris. He could hardly take me to a wizard magistrate." She knew this was not what he had been asking, though it would help him to verify the legality of the marriage. Muggle marriage might not be en vogue in the wizarding world, but they _were_ binding. So binding that purebloods who married Muggles were often disowned by their families.

"I… What I meant to ask is whether you were married of your own free will or whether you were somehow compelled or threatened, magically or otherwise."

Hermione dropped her eyes to her hands and reached out to take a sip of tea before replying. "I can't say."

Mr. Grimpole blinked at this and peered at her with his head tilted. "Can't say? Are you saying that you unable to answer my question or merely unwilling?"

"I can't say."

"Hmm." Silence fell once more as his quill dashed over the parchment. He nodded to himself and mumbled some more before returning his attention to Hermione. "Do you have any idea why Mr. Malfoy should choose to marry you? Are you at least able to answer that question?"

She nodded. "I believe he did so in order that I would be prevented from testifying at his upcoming trial." That it had been her idea, she did not think prudent to add.

"Of course." At this, Mr. Grimpole looked positively despondent. Doubtless he had envisioned bringing Hermione on the stand amid tears and lurid descriptions of torture at the hands of the vicious Death Eater. Still, she reasoned, he and the rest of the prosecuting team and the Daily Prophet would be able to wring quite a lot of the fact that he had married her presumably to keep her quiet. What exactly had he done during that time, they would speculate, that made him so desperate for her silence that he would soil himself and his name by marrying a Mudblood?

"Ms. Granger, I must apologise for taking up your time on what may be a fruitless quest. I must return to my office and conduct some research on the question of spousal immunity, but it seems likely that I shall not have reason to return to speak with you again. If you can think of any way you may be able to help us, please do not hesitate to owl me immediately." He started to pack his things into his satchel and paused as something else occurred to him. "If you wish to attend the trial, owl my office. The trials are not open to the public, you understand, but you are… intimately connected to the case."

"Thank you," she said, "but I don't think I will take you up on that."

He looked crestfallen again for a moment, and Hermione realised that he must have been envisioning what a sympathetic sight she would make at the trial, pale but dignified, seeking justice for the man who had perpetuated unthinkable horrors on her. Hmph. Maybe he truly did believe he was working for justice here, but she would not participate in the farce.

She stayed at the table while Mrs. Weasely, who just happened to finish the dishes at that moment, showed Mr. Grimpole to the door. When she returned, Hermione sighed deeply and laid her head on the table on crossed arms. Mrs. Weasely hurried over to sit beside her and set a friendly hand on her shoulder. To Hermione's relief, she did not feel the need to say anything reassuring. What _could_ she have said, after all?

Hermione thought she might cry, but her eyes remained dry. She stayed in that position until she heard footsteps near the kitchen and straightened in her chair as Mrs. Weasely stood and returned to her station in the kitchen. Ron and Harry had barely sat down before they started reaching for the food and piling it on their plates.

"Morning, Hermione," Harry said, poised over his plate reaching for a stack of sausages.

"Morning," Ron echoed through a half-chewed roll.

Mrs. Weasely looked horrified and scolded the pair of them, but Hermione just smiled. It was nice to know that battles with Death Eaters and daring rescues did not upset certain fundamental things, like the appetites of those two in the morning.

"Good morning," she replied. "Try not to choke, Ron."

Somewhat admonished by Mrs. Weasely, the pair slowed their frenetic pace and really looked at Hermione for the first time this morning.

"How are you feeling?" Harry asked. "You don't look… I mean… are you sleeping all right?"

Apparently he had acquired some little tact while she was away. Someone, she guessed Ginny Weasely, had taught him that it is _not_ done to tell someone that she looked terrible in the morning.

"I… I was comfortable, yes. Er, I've been having…" She wilted a little under Mrs. Weasely's suddenly interested gaze. "… a little trouble sleeping for awhile now."

"If you want to talk to someone," Mrs. Weasely said to Hermione as she filled some of the depleted dishes, "I can give you the address of a friend of mine. She's good for talking about things… maybe things you don't want to share with anyone else." She smiled warmly at Hermione before redirecting her attention to re-stacking pancakes.

"Mum, did I hear someone else here just now?" Ron asked, this time without a mouth full of masticated bread.

Mrs. Weasely shot a quick look at Hermione, who nodded. The exchange was not lost on either of the young men, who temporarily lost interest in their food and locked their eyes on Hermione.

"It was an attorney," she explained. "He wanted to ask me about Mr. Malfoy and the trial and how I could… contribute."

"And? You didn't tell _him_ you weren't going to be able to testify, did you?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Ron, who reddened a little but did not look away. "What I did or did not tell him is hardly your business." She did not exactly why she was acting so coolly toward him on this point but justified her reticence by reminding herself that she would have to get used to refusing to answer people's insistent questions.

"Listen," she said in a softer tone, "there are some things I have to tell you, but I can't, not yet."

And to prove that he wasn't such a bad guy, because he really wasn't, Ron extended a hand across the table, which Hermione took with a smile. She squeezed his hand.

"We'll be here," he said quietly. "No matter what. Right, Harry?"

Ron, Hermione thought, would never fail to astound her. If only he could be understanding and supportive like this all the time, maybe she would not have… Delete that thought. They had tried that road and most emphatically turned off it again.

"Whatever it is, we'll still be your friends," Harry affirmed.

Hermione took her hand back and gazed at her friends. She wondered if they would still be smiling when she finally did screw up the courage to tell them about Lucius. Her husband.

No one else was home that day; Hermione could not have said what day of the week it _was_ but apparently not the weekend. Harry and Ron left after their breakfast, and Mr. Weasely had left while she had still been sleeping. Ginny, she learned, was finishing her residency at St. Mungo's and would not be home for another week or so.

Hermione would have liked to return to her own work as the Ministry's Director of Research, a position she had lobbied to create in order to coordinate all the Ministry's research efforts, mostly concerning the War, scattered across the various libraries and schools. It was not something she hoped to work at for the rest of her life, but it was certainly… educational. She did have time to read, but she had learned more about bureaucracy and the often informal way business was conducted at the Ministry, over lunch and during elite fêtes she had never been invited to attend.

But she received an owl that very morning from her supervisor forbidding her to come into work for a couple of days or even a week if she wanted. Annoying as that was, she could understand how sympathy for her ordeal might combine with a reluctance to have journalists and owls burdened with get-well wishes to come flooding the Ministry corridors. By the time her marriage became public knowledge – and it would – many of those get-well wishes would become hate mail and Howlers.

Mrs. Weasely gossiped about people Hermione knew, who was dating whom and which feuds had blown up again and who was in line for which promotion, and avoided the topic of her abduction, even though Hermione could tell the woman was dying to hear about it. It was therapeutic, the idle conversation and the responses Hermione made automatically. She was not quite ready to return to her own home, a little house she rented near Brighton, so together they worked on those little maintenances large, rambling, falling-over magical houses (and other sorts) required. Individually little things but somehow there was always one more that needed to be repaired or corrected or cleaned.

Just as they were sitting down to a quick cup of tea late that afternoon, a knock sounded on the front door. Mrs. Weasely ordered Hermione to stay where she was and returned, wearing an uncharacteristically grim expression with Rita Skeeter in tow. Hermione wanted to put her head in her hands again, but instead she smiled at the reporter and asked after her health. Or rather, she opened her mouth to ask after her health when Rita interrupted by rattling off instructions for Mrs. Weasely about how she liked her tea – lemon, tiny dash of honey, generous splash of whatever spirits she had.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at that last instruction. She had never heard it was good etiquette to request whisky in one's tea, especially before dinner.

"Very hard day, my dear, simply exhausting. It's gruelling work, but I am a slave to the public. Unlike some people, I can't sit around drinking tea and staring out the window all day, can I?"

Mrs. Weasely made a choking noise, and Hermione gave Rita a sharp look.

"Now, now, I mean no offence, young lady. Merlin forbid I get on your bad side again." For an instant, Rita actually looked nervous, but her brash chatter took over again before Hermione could decide whether she had actually seen that twitch. "That is, Wizarding Britain is overjoyed to hear that a team of Aurors were able to rescue you from your imprisonment, yes, quite a boost for morale."

As she spoke, Rita scrounged around in a new handbag, this one fashioned of what looked like alligator skin except striped with virulent pink and green. She withdrew a roll of parchment, not unlike Mr. Grimpole's, and her Quik Quotes quill, very different from the attorney's restrained grey-and-black model. She adjusted her glasses and leaned across the table with wide eyes. The quill leapt and scurried across the page with big loopy flourishes Hermione tried not to read.

"Now, tell me _everything_. The people want to know, they _must_ know what horrific crimes Mr. Malfoy committed while he held you captive." Hermione could see that the reporter was trying to convey sympathy, but she resembled nothing if not an eager feline waiting to pounce. Her lips kept curving in a predatory smile, which she immediately tamped down.

"Did he hurt you in any way? Did he engage in… _unspeakable_ acts?"

When Hermione showed no inclination to answer, the woman leaned back a little and barked a question about her tea. Mrs. Weasely took her time but finally did set down a chipped cup at the reporter's elbow.

"Come, Miss Granger, we're going to hear all about it at Malfoy's trial, after all. You must want the people on your side before then. Surely a smart girl like you can see how important public opinion is at a time like this. If you don't tell them anything, they'll start to suspect that perhaps your captivity wasn't all some people are making it out to be. Why, it's even possible that people will start to whisper that Malfoy wasn't the one who did the abducting… that you two were in league the whole time."

Her voice dropped as she continued. "It's surprising that you look so well, Miss Granger. No bruises, perhaps a bit of a mark around your throat and bags under your eyes, and you _are_ rather pale, but you look almost too healthy for someone who had been in the grip of a ruthless Death Eater for so long."

Hermione remained silent. Let the woman vent as long as she liked and write whatever she chose. She had endured Rita's diatribes before and the resulting hate mail. She could do it again.

Rita edged her chair closer to the table and cast a watchful glance at the bustling Mrs. Weasely before lowering her voice to a whisper. "Or perhaps we will not hear everything at the trial. I went to visit your new friend Grimpole today, young lady, and he did not seem nearly as happy as I would have expected. Hadn't he just come away with an especially moving testimony from a beloved… semi-public figure? He refused to answer, of course, but his secretary and I are on _very_ good terms, and she let it slip over lunch that he had got _nothing_ from you. Nothing useful, at least. A single foot of parchment's worth of notes.

"Of course she could not divulge the contents of that single foot, but she could say, because it would become public knowledge in a matter of days, that you would not be testifying at Malfoy's trial. The Wizengamot can order just about anyone to testify; I thought it very odd that you should be exempt from the law on this matter."

Oh damn. Oh bollocks. Oh bloody _hell_. Her marriage was going to be front page news in tomorrow's edition of the Daily Prophet. She either had to think of some way to shut Rita up, shut her up fast, or resign herself right now to the very bad publicity she would have very soon. She could not even complain to Mr. Grimpole, who would certainly fire his loose-lipped secretary and who would then be set up as a martyr to the people's right to know.

"I've spent all afternoon wondering how this was possible, and then I got in touch with some of my Muggle contacts. I had a suspicion, you see, and they were able to confirm it in just a few minutes."

Of course they were. Marriages, even shady marriages which had transpired with a hefty bribe and without the necessary paperwork, were a matter of public record. She would not have been surprised if such information were available over the internet in some fashion.

"So you have two options, Miss Granger… or should I say, Mrs. Malfoy." An unpleasant grin spread across the reporter's face. "You can tell me the story you know I'm looking for, or you can look forward to tomorrow's headline."


	18. Secrets and Sensation

A/N: Back on the writing schedule! Yay! Of course, school starts next week… we'll see how long the schedule lasts. This is a rather longer chapter than usual (do I say that either time?), so sit down with a beverage and popcorn to read, enjoy, and review my latest offering. Popcorn not included.

Chapter Eighteen:

Hermione could see Mrs. Weasley, poised over a cabinet with a bright blue feather duster emitting silver sparkles, stiffen and pause in her dusting. Even from this distance she could see the tension in her posture, not anticipatory this time but angry. Once an avid reader of Rita Skeeter (that had a nice ring to it, Hermione thought idly), Molly Weasley had become disillusioned with the flamboyant journalist after she had printed one – and then ten – too many exaggerations and distortions and outright lies about her family and good friends.

"I can see it now," she replied with a smile, "Brutal Kidnapping or Secret Elopement?" with pictures of me looking… what, secretive, I suppose and distinctly unharmed and…" In the heat of the moment, she had almost said 'Lucius' and only barely stopped herself. It would make little difference in how Rita perceived her, but Hermione did not want to imagine how Mrs. Weasley would look at her if she heard her calling her captor by his given name.

"…and Mr. Malfoy looking cool and calm and despicable as ever. Very clever, Rita. And in a few weeks, when the _people_ have forgotten about your lurid tale and come to see reason, as they always do even if it takes them awhile, you'll probably be forced to issue another retraction. How many does that make now?"

That unpleasant smile wavered but did not disappear. "Then you won't deny my personal theory that you were not kidnapped at all, that you were a willing traveler with Mr. Malfoy on your little sojourn to the sunny south of France. Fascinating. What better way to cover up your illicit affair and more importantly your harbouring of a known fugitive than with a convenient marriage that spares you the necessity of speaking a word about your flight. Very clever. I'd even wager it was your idea, but how did you get him to agree to such a plan? A wizard like that is very concerned with his public image, you know, very careful to make sure that no touch of _mud _should stain his reputation."

Hermione shrugged. "Print what you like, Rita. It makes no difference to me. I'll ride it out like I always have and always will. I might have thought you would aspire to journalistic integrity after all these years, but really, you just bore me anymore. Tell Britain I'm Malfoy's mistress… well, was his mistress. Now his wife. Tell them I was the impetus behind the whole affair." She grinned and looked downright sinister for a moment. "You can tell them that I'm a Death Eater hopeful myself, looking to worm my way in to Voldemort's inner circle. You've accused Harry of worse."

She stood and brought her cup of tea over to the sink. "Now, if you please, we have a lot of sitting around and staring out the window to finish before we start dinner. And don't even think about snooping around the house; I'll be watching you."

"You'll be sorry," Rita warned as she stuffed her quill and parchment back into her garish handbag. "The Daily Prophet has made careers and it has broken them."

Hermione laughed. "You give yourself too much credit and your readers too little."

Without a further word, Rita huffed out the door. The easy smile on Hermione's face disappeared the moment the reporter was out of sight. God, but it had been hard maintaining that carefree façade. She could talk about the common sense of the people to see beyond Rita's sensationalism, but she knew better. If Rita did print everything Hermione knew she wanted, her career might be in serious danger. As a Ministry official, dull as her job description as director of research sounded to most people, it was a public position and was therefore vulnerable to public scrutiny and her bosses subject to public pressure.

She ran her hands through her bushy hair, momentarily tempted to rip it out. She sighed and felt hot tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. And she had thought being recruited to the Death Eaters and then saving the life of one of their members while on the run from the others had been stressful. Mrs. Weasley dropped her duster and came over to engulf Hermione in a quiet embrace. Hermione clung to the older woman as if she were her only lifeline.

"I have to go," she said after a moment's silence. "I can't…" She hiccupped and wiped her eyes. "I can't stay here, not after Rita's story breaks. You'll be flooded with Howlers and worse. It's bad enough that you… that any of you will be associated with me. After you've been so kind, I can't bring all that down on you."

"There, there," Mrs. Weasley said as she patted Hermione's back. "Everything will be all right. You were right; people have a very short memory. They're all worked up about this trial, and you'll make a scandalous side note, but then the next development will come along and you'll be quite forgotten. I've seen it happen… we all have. There, there, dear."

"I have to tell Harry and Ron tonight," she said, dreading that scene. Was that the sort of news to break over the dinner table? The roast is good, have you tried the potatoes, oh and please, call me Mrs. Malfoy. Hmm. "Mrs. Weasley, what am I going to say to them?"

To her surprise, she heard a rumble of a laugh. "Now that we're both married women, you can call me Molly."

And despite the situation, Hermione found herself chuckling a little, too. "Thank you… Molly. But what do I tell them? Malfoy tried to _kill_ your daughter in her first year at Hogwarts as part of a conspiracy to resurrect Lord Voldemort. Now I'm _married_ to him."

That had been the hardest point to reconcile during their time together. The murder and torture of innocent people she had not known was one thing, but Ginny was her friend and confidante. They had shared dating stories and complaints about the boys they knew, and Lucius Malfoy had been the major instrument in the younger woman's near-death experience with the diary of a teenage Tom Riddle. She was not sure she ever _had_ successfully reconciled that, actually, but then, since when did logic have anything to do with… whatever she had felt? Did still feel, in fact. Was it possible for her now to despise and miss and maybe even love Lucius Malfoy all at the same time?

"If you don't mind my asking, Hermione, how did that come about?"

Hermione would have liked nothing more than to confide in… Molly, but she knew she would not. She doubted there was anyone she could trust with her secret, certainly none of her well-meaning but ultimately single-minded friends. "I… I can't say. I'm so sorry."

"It's all right. You'll get through this, you're a strong girl. Strong woman."

They fell silent for another minute, and then something else occurred to Hermione. She groaned and gently extracted herself from Mrs. Weasley's arms. "There's someone else I have to speak with tonight, as soon as possible. I know you're not supposed to share this, but… I need to get in touch with Draco."

Molly gave Hermione a long, level look and finally nodded. "He does deserve to know before the rest of the country. I'll… do what I can. I can't promise anything, but I might be able to pass along the message that you wish to see him urgently."

Hermione could only thank her again and watch her hurry out the door after little more than a fluffing of her hair and a straightening of her robes. It was difficult to remember sometimes that Molly Weasley played the important role that she did in the Order of the Phoenix. As a housewife she could have been an idyllic poster child, but she was also a capable witch entrusted with secrets and plans known to very few.

To her horror, Hermione realised just after Molly left that no one had begun to prepare dinner for the arrival of the menfolk. As tempting as it was to let them forage for themselves… she knew how Harry and Ron, at least, took Mrs. Weasley for granted… she decided that the news she would have to break would be stressful enough. The least she could do was make sure they did not receive it on empty stomachs.

She gazed in despair around the kitchen for a moment. Nothing helpful in cooking for a family jumped out at her. She was accustomed to cooking a little bit at a time for herself, nothing like this. Inspiration soon struck, however, as she Summoned a book of cooking spells. Surely she could find something filling within those pages to whip up. When she had spent time here over the holidays, she had watched Mrs. Weasley and offered her help, but the older woman always had refused with a smile. She was not even certain she knew how the appliances worked.

She more than half-seriously considered setting them up with beans and toast. Wasn't that England's famed contribution to global cuisine? But finally she made her way through the introductory chapter and found something easy enough. By the time Mr. Weasley came home, with Ron and Harry trailing a few minutes later, a pot bubbling on the stove top and a dish baking in the oven sent tantalising aromas wafting into the dining room. Feeling strangely domestic, she asked everyone how their day had gone and even scolded Ron a little for something she could not remember five minutes later. Probably a smudge, either on his person or something he left on floor.

Mr. Weasley asked after the whereabouts of his wife, to which Hermione was able to honestly reply that she could not say where Mrs. Weasley had gone but she thought it had something to do with a message. Everyone seemed to take this in stride and sat down after Hermione reminded them to wash their hands. Ron and Harry exchanged nervous glances they failed to hide from Hermione, who glared as she served up her concoctions. It was just a spot of stew with some hearty bread, more appropriate for winter than the middle of summer, she thought belatedly, but it went over well. She set an extra place for Mrs. Weasley and hoped the other woman would show up soon, so Hermione could postpone her announcement a little longer.

No such luck. Soon enough, Harry was asking Hermione how her day had gone, and she knew this was the perfect opportunity. It was perfunctory question; by his tone, she guessed that he was expecting her to say nothing at all interesting.

"I helped Mrs. Weasley with the housework… how she managed this house when all of you were at home, I can't imagine. An attorney for the… the trial stopped by, but he didn't stay long, and then Rita Skeeter dropped in for a chat."

The three men had looked mildly interested when she mentioned the attorney, but when she mentioned Rita, Harry's head in particular whipped around to face her.

"That horrible reporter who said you were… right," Ron finished lamely when Hermione raised her eyebrow.

"What did she want?" Harry asked.

Hermione stared into her bowl as if hoping that all the answers to her current predicament might emerge from the fragrant liquid. "Oh, you know Rita. She wanted to hear a tear-jerking story about my abduction, preferably with a picture of me looking absolutely devastated for the front page."

Ron snorted. "I bet you gave her the what for, didn't you? Sent her packing. Good riddance."

Mr. Weasley looked as though he was considering reprimanding Ron and then decided against it. He had no more reason to love Rita than anyone else at the table.

"Right," Hermione replied, "but she didn't like that… of course. And, er, you know what happens when she doesn't like someone."

Mr. Weasley nodded slowly. "I remember, all right. I know you, Hermione, you've got more sense than to get worked up about anything that woman has to say about you."

She gave him a shaky smile. "Thanks. Er, I feel I should warn you what she's going to say. It's, er… you're not going to like it."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise. "What, she warned you ahead of time?"

"Sort of." She sighed. "It has to do with the trial. Remember how I said I wasn't going to testify?" At their encouraging nods, she continued after another deep breath. "That's why Mr. Grimpole, the attorney, was here. I told him the same thing, and I told Rita. I mean, I didn't tell her why, but she figured it out. While I was… away, Mr. Malfoy and I… we were married." She winced.

"Married!" Ron yelled. Harry paled. Mr. Weasley almost fell out his chair. "What do you mean, _married_? Please tell me you're joking."

Worse than Ron's bluster was Harry's dead silence. She could feel his eyes boring into her, could feel anger and shock radiate from him like heat from a stove.

"She's not," Mr. Weasley said quietly. "Spousal immunity. A wife, in this case, cannot be called to testify against her husband." He gave Hermione a disconcertingly sharp glance. "Is that why he did it? He knew he'd be put on trial… but why would he care? It isn't as if he's going to submit to the Wizengamot's authority."

"It doesn't matter _why_," Ron persisted in a much louder voice than his father, "you're _married_ to Lucius Malfoy! Merlin, I think that's even worse than being married to Draco Malfoy, and that's saying something! Hermione, how could you let this happen?"

For the first time since she had made her announcement, Harry spoke up. "How _could_ you let this happen? Because of him, Ginny nearly died during her first year at Hogwarts. He would have cursed me or worse if Dobby hadn't intervened. He tortured those innocent Muggles at the World Cup." His voice, like Mr. Weasley's, was quiet, but it cut like a knife. His anger was white hot and all the more unpleasant for its apparent calm.

"Now, now," Mr. Weasley began nervously, "let's not go making assumptions, Harry. I'm sure Hermione would not have done this if there were any other choice… right, Hermione?" He turned hopeful eyes on her.

She flushed and looked at her hands. "I can't say."

"You _can't say_?" Ron exclaimed. "We're your best friends, and you can't say? It's not like we won't believe you or can't keep a secret."

"It's not… that isn't it, Ron. I can't say, and that's that."

Harry's jaw was clenched, and he was gripping his spoon so hard that his knuckles were bloodless around the handle. "You should have-"

"Should have what!" she exploded. "If he threatened to kill me unless I agreed, should I have let myself die? If he threatened to hurt my family or my friends, should I have let _them_ die?" She took a slow, calming breath before she continued. "That's really nice, Harry."

If he wanted to hurt her, fine. She could pay him back in kind. "It's funny, though, isn't it, how you're willing to condemn me to death because I'm married to a man who nearly caused Ginny's death… and yet when she's around, you can barely force yourself to acknowledge her existence?"

Since he had decided that he could not pursue a relationship with the youngest Weasley, Harry had been avoiding her like the plague. Hermione was sure _that_ had not changed in her absence and that the only way Mrs. Weasley had persuaded Harry to stay with them for the moment was by promising that Ginny was still living away from home.

His reasons were very noble and self-sacrificing, but what he could not seem to get through his thick skull, Hermione and Ginny had agreed, was the fact that Ginny deserved just as much say in the state of their relationship as he did. He had made some soothing noises about wanting to remain friends, but it was hard to do that when he could not bring himself to be around her for more time than absolutely necessary at Order meetings.

"Don't you _ever_ talk to me about Ginny," he hissed at her before shoving his chair away from the table and storming out of the dining room.

"Then don't talk to me about Malfoy!" she shouted.

Now it was Mr. Weasley and his son who were exchanging nervous looks. Ron seemed especially discombobulated that he was not the one Hermione was shouting at for once.

"You… you really can't say?" he finally managed.

She said nothing, only rolled her eyes.

"Right. Okay. Er, I should go… talk to Harry." Ron stood slowly, looking around him as if suddenly unsure that he was still occupying the usual dimension. "Blimey, isn't he supposed to be the one making peace between you and me?"

Hermione shrugged. He wandered after Harry, muttering to himself. Mr. Weasley stood also but only went as far as the sink. "You should, er, take a break. I'll make you some tea and get this cleaned up."

"Thank you, but I have a lot of reading I have to get to." With that, she left the dining room and climbed the stairs to Ginny's room. She did have reading, but, as she remembered as soon as she opened the bedroom door, none of it was here. Instead, she sat at the window, flipping through some of Ginny's old magazines and staring out the window.

She had made her way through nearly half a year of Teen Witches Weekly when a timid knock interrupted her reverie. It was Mrs. Weasley, come to tell her that she had made contact with Draco and that Hermione could go see him as soon as she liked. She also came bearing a steaming cup of tea, which was as welcome as the news. Hermione tried to make her voice sound casual as she thanked Molly, but the other woman's eyes were too full of sympathy to pretend that she did not know what had happened earlier.

"Don't worry," she said as she sat on her daughter's bed, "he'll come around. You three are always fighting, or at least two of you are, and you always pull through."

Hermione took a sip of tea. "What about you?"

Mrs. Weasley blinked. "Me? What about me?"

"Well… Harry's right. I mean, he did do all those things… he almost left Ginny to be killed by Voldemort's diary. Aren't you… I mean, I've ended up _married_ to him, and you're allowing me to sleep under you roof in her bed."

"It was… a shock," Molly admitted, "but I trust you, Hermione. It's a simple as that." They shared a friendly look before Mrs. Weasley continued briskly. "If you want to speak with Draco, it's going to be a bit complicated. We don't want anyone finding him who shouldn't find him, and it was a little difficult to remember everything. But we finally located him and told him to expect an urgent visit tonight." She unfolded a scrap of parchment and handed it to Hermione. "Here are the directions. He's living in a little village in Finland… I'm not really sure how to pronounce it."

"Finland?"

"It's for his own protection," Mrs. Weasley explained. "He's been under threat of death from You-Know-Who for years now… we don't know if he'll ever be able to return to Britain, at least while the war is still going on."

Hermione stifled a giggle at the thought of the playboy she had known from school shivering in a Scandinavian village somewhere. No, this was serious. Very serious. She should look as dour as possible. She thanked Molly again and turned her attention to memorising the directions before incinerating the scrap of parchment. It was impossible to Apparate to the starting point, but there _was_ a Squib in the area who kept a fireplace connected to the Floo network for wizards and witches who needed to travel in that region (for a price, naturally).

Luckily, summer nights were pleasant even in this part of Finland. Hermione had brought a jumper with her and was more than warm enough as she picked her way over what in the daylight was probably a very picturesque cobblestone street. She turned this way and that, crossed a couple of bridges, and finally ended up on the doorstep of a rather attractive little frame house. Yellow light streamed from curtained windows, and she thought she could see the figure within.

The door swung open when she knocked to reveal Draco Malfoy, glaring down at Hermione. He looked so like his father in some ways, but especially now, he lacked his father's cool self-confidence, that arrogance which appeared at first glance like laziness.

"What, you're my urgent visit?" he said, voice a bit slurred. "Have you come to shout at me for my father's latest crime? Don't think I don't know about it… I do get a paper and then."

It was hard not to stare. Draco Malfoy had always been slender, but now he looked almost emaciated. Dark smudges lay under his eyes and made the rest of his face even paler by comparison. His clothes hung off him, and a reek of alcohol drifted outside to meet her. He had looked bad during their sixth year at school, but this was worse.

"It's not that," she replied. "Not exactly."

He scrutinised her in silence for awhile before giving a short nod. "Yeah, fine. It's not like I have anything better to do. You might as well come in."

She followed him in to what looked like a cosy little sitting room. A fireplace sat unused at one end, next to a flickering television and across from a sofa decorated in muted greens and blues. Apparently Draco had discovered the joys of the telly. She wondered what he would find worthy of his attention, especially this late. Perhaps it was better she didn't find out, she thought after further reflection.

"What could be so important that the Order would risk compromising my location?" he mused aloud, surprisingly articulate considering the smell of the place and the slur in his speech. "Like a drink?"

Hermione started to shake her head and reconsidered. "Yes, please. Whatever you have is fine."

"Vodka it is. Good stuff, straight from Russia. I'll say this for Muggles, they appreciate a wide variety of spirits." He poured the liquor straight into a tumbler which looked clean enough from a distance and handed it to Hermione. She sniffed it and shrugged and noted with approval that he did not take any more for himself.

He sat on the sofa and motioned for her to do the same. "They said it was urgent. Does it have anything to do with my father?"

She nodded and took a sip of her vodka. It was not quite as good as Draco had promised; it burned on the way down.

"Hm…" He snorted. "You're not pregnant with his unwanted child, are you?"

Hermione choked, and the drink burned worse than ever. She coughed for a few moments and rubbed her throat. "Ow. No, I'm not pregnant." She thought wryly that after that, he might be relieved that she was just married to Lucius, but just in case, she downed the rest of her drink. "But… I am married to him."

He goggled at her. "Married? To my father?" He looked at his hand as if expecting to see a drink of his own there. "Are you sure you've come to right place? You're married to _my father_, Lucius Malfoy, scourge of Muggles and Mu… Muggle-borns who have the bad fortune to cross his path?"

She wanted to laugh. Sometime since she had last seen him, Draco Malfoy had developed a sense of humour beyond the amusement he had always found in hurting and bullying people. A bitter sort of humour, but there it was. She nodded. "That's right."

He actually did laugh. "Mother will hate that. She never liked you. Never liked anyone who showed me up in anything. But she did her best with me." He looked dreamy for a moment and then cut his eyes toward the bottle with a thoughtful expression.

Hermione fiddled with her glass. "Er, right. I thought I'd better tell you before you saw it plastered across the papers." This was nowhere near how she had envisioned this meeting, but on the whole, she thought he was taking it pretty well. At least he had not yelled at her or accused her of betraying anybody. "You're… taking this better than I expected."

At this, Draco barked a short laugh. "Better than your friends are taking it, I bet. What can I say, Granger, when your father's a boastful murderer and your mother's recently run away to Greece with a boyfriend half her age, your whole attitude about what wizarding society can do with its opinions of your family really changes. Take my word for it." He laughed again. "Tell me, are you going to be at this trial I've read about?"

This time Hermione snorted. "It's a farce, and we both know it." She stood and left her glass balanced precariously on the over-stuffed arm of the sofa. "Thank you for the drink. It's been… interesting."

"Do say hello to everyone for me," he said with mock formality. He waved her out as he went to fetch her glass from the sofa.

Hermione Apparated back to the Burrow and climbed straight into bed. Of the many strange and sundry days she had had lately, this was easily the strangest. She fell asleep without even a second thought for the nightmares that were to come.


	19. Silver and Gold

A/N: This chapter feels a little hodgepodge to me, but maybe that means everyone will find something to enjoy (and review!). I'm officially back in the habit of writing during class, yay!

Chapter Nineteen:

Hermione had not been far wrong in her guess at the next day's headline. _Vicious Kidnapping or Secret Tryst?_ was splashed across the front of the Daily Prophet, showing side-by-side pictures of Lucius and Hermione looking much as she had predicted. She had been awake when the paper arrived in the morning, so Mrs. Weasley had not had any time to dispose of it before she saw it. She read it over breakfast, determined to be amused by its contents. The day before she had made up her mind to vacate the Burrow as soon as possible, and now she was spending her last few hours with Molly before returning to her own little place.

It would be nice to return home, she thought. The upkeep was certainly easier, and everything was arranged to her greatest convenience. She a few neighbours nearby but none she was friendly with; her house was a cottage which had once been a gatehouse for a large manse nearly a mile away. The other magical residences in the area were on the same scale as the manse. No one was actually rude or dismissive, but she knew when she was not wanted, and none of her neighbours or their affairs struck her as very interesting anyway.

With a puff of green powder and emerald-tinged dizziness, Hermione arrived in her little fireplace and brushed the ashes from the robes Mrs. Weasley had lent her from Ginny's closet. She would also be thrilled to wear her own familiar clothes, she thought as she tugged the robes back into position. As she began the task of listing the items she would need to purchase now that she had returned, a tap-tap-tap sounded on the window nearest her. She groaned; doubtless this was the first of the hate mail she would receive.

Her first thought when she peered through the window was that this was an awfully lofty owl to be carrying hate mail. It could have been Hedwig's sibling, for all she knew about owls, downy and snowy white with speckles of brown clustered near its shining eyes. The bird held a leg out haughtily, displaying a folded piece of heavy parchment with her name written on the front in an elegant hand. Someone had gone through a _lot_ of trouble to tell her that she was a traitor to Wizarding Britain and her fellow Muggle-borns.

By the time she had read halfway through the letter, a grin was tugging at her lips, and when she finished, she was laughing. The owl hooted softly at her and beat its wings to attract her attention, then stuck its leg out again. She guessed that meant it was waiting for a reply. Still chuckling, she fished through her desk for her nicest parchment and newest quill. She hesitated before penning the response, trying to formulate just the right answer to this unexpected missive, and sent it off within half an hour.

Hermione spent the day around the house, wondering how much time she should let pass before doing the shopping she and her house desperately needed. She would have liked to go that very day – nothing was quite so comforting as shopping for groceries and other essentials – but she feared she might cause a riot if she showed up at any of her usual stores. How many people, she suddenly wondered, had been driven to shopping by catalogue by an unwanted bout of fame?

There was little too organise after all, and she found herself too soon staring out the window and wondering how to spend the rest of her day. Owls had been coming steadily all morning now, bringing mostly letters from more distant friends and the occasional – but more occasional than she had dared hope – hateful letter from those who had already read Rita's article and thought of a few words they desired to share. She toyed with the idea of sending replies to them, sarcastic or serious, and rejected it. The last thing she wanted now was to begin some sort of feud.

To her friends she did reply, and eventually afternoon passed into evening. With sunset came the Evening Prophet, which she opened reluctantly after resolving not to read it and then catching herself staring at it every few minutes. Malfoy's trial took up the bulk of the reporting, with moving pictures and snippets of testimonies amid much speculation. She sat down with the intention of glancing through the paper for any stories unrelated to this showboat trial, and when she looked up again, the sun had set and her stomach was growling.

Mrs. Weasley came by after dinner, unwilling to leave Hermione completely on her own just yet. The latter had looked forward to a quiet evening spent in more organisation and re-organisation of her life, but she welcomed the company nonetheless. Harry, Molly reported, had been very quiet this morning, and Ron had admitted that he'd had to practically drag him to dinner tonight. With most of their children gone, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would have been happy to give Harry a room of his own, but he insisted on paying rent. Of course, no one wanted Harry living alone; he was number one Voldemort's Most Wanted list.

The evening wound to a close, and the next couple of days passed in a similar fashion. She had finally received reluctant permission from her supervisor to return to work whenever she liked and now was enjoying a little peace and quiet, at least from the post, that she had not expected. The mysterious letter carried by the elegant snowy owl had come from Hermione's upper-crust neighbours who had heard, along with the rest of the country, that she was married to Lucius Malfoy.

Unlike the rest of the country and most of her social circle, however, they looked upon the marriage as a positive development. The letter had been an invitation to come up for tea some time and instructions to a simple ward that would keep hate mail away from her and anyone else she gave the spell to. Apparently it was not a widely-published charm, seen as one of the privileges remaining to high-society (and mostly pureblood) wizards.

So she had gone to tea the very next day and beforehand had fretted for much longer than usual about what she was to wear. They must know, she finally reasoned, that she was hardly at the same economic level as them, so she wore one of her nicer robes and refused to worry too much about it. As she had expected, she Apparated to the gate and was shown in by a house elf through a long corridor, floored in marble and hung with marvellous tapestries. While they walked, bits of conversation floated to them.

"… certainly not his father, is he?"

"I believe… long time that he was a squib. Just think of it, a squib in such a family!"

"…started off a bit of a disappointment, but now the old woman can't say enough about him!"

When they entered the airy sitting room, a handful of bejewelled women turn and fastened their eyes on Hermione, who tried not to blush under the sudden scrutiny. Their hostess, the youngest and most bejewelled of the woman, Mrs. Annette Mitherston who had invited her here, introduced Hermione to the other ladies present. Some of the names Hermione recognised from the Daily Prophet and others from her work at the Ministry.

One of the other women, old enough that grey showed in her hair and probably the most striking of the bunch, interrupted the last of the introductions to continue the conversation they had been holding before Hermione's entrance.

"You went to school with him, I believe," she said, favouring Hermione with a slight nod. "We hear such different accounts of Mr. Neville Longbottom. Perhaps you could enlighten us." Her tone was not particularly friendly, but neither was it unfriendly. It was… formal, she decided after a moment's reflection, stiff but respectful.

At one time, such a request might have unnerved her – though she never would have displayed her discomfort – but after the time she had spent with the haughty Lucius Malfoy, she thought she could converse with utter ease with just about anyone. She accepted a cup of tea and wet her lips before answering.

"I imagine that everything you've heard about him probably does contain a grain of truth," she replied. "He was far from Hogwarts's best student, but much of his difficulty, I believe, stemmed from his own unfortunate opinion of himself… and the unfortunate opinions of others. All he needed was a bit of positive reinforcement, and he flourished. Last I heard, he was travelling to a tropical island somewhere to study rare magical carnivorous plants."

Someone's cousin was embarking on a holiday to an island somewhere, and the conversation soon shifted away from Hermione and her schoolmates. So much the better, she thought. Ruminations about her time at Hogwarts would only serve to remind the women how much younger she was than them, at least ten years Mrs. Annette Mitherston's junior and young enough to be a daughter to most of them.

No one alluded to her marriage or her recent history, and she was politely invited to join them any time she wished. She did not mention that she would have to return to work soon and happily accepted the invitation. At the very least, she could come on Sundays. The others began drifting out late in the afternoon, but Annette invited Hermione to stay a bit longer, if she liked. The other woman confided that she was near insane with boredom at their little social circle, so unvarying, and was absolutely thrilled that Hermione could join them, "now that she had moved up in the world, if she would pardon her impudence."

Hermione repressed a laugh. So she had moved up in the world even though her marriage to Lucius was a purely legal fact? She wondered if Draco would agree with that sentiment.

"Having moved up in the world in such a…precipitous unusual fashion," she said after a moment's thought, "I'm very grateful for the charm you recommended." It was on the tip of her tongue to ask how she might go about necessary business like running errands, but it occurred to her that Mrs. Annette Mitherston probably sent her house elf on such dull quests.

"Oh, I'm glad you found it useful. Yes, I wondered if the more narrow-minded might think fit to fling at you such ghastly accusations as I cannot imagine."

Hermione was not sure if Lucius and Annette moved in exactly the same circles, but they definitely spoke alike. It was tempting to ask her neighbour if she had known… knew Lucius, but something told her that might be a question for a day when they knew each other a little better. She wondered how long her newfound friends, if friends they would be, could repress their curiosity on the subject of the marriage.

Later that week, Mrs. Weasley invited Hermione over for dinner, and she found Harry apologetic and a little sheepish. They agreed not to discus Ginny or Lucius, which proved especially difficult when Ginny herself showed up a few minutes later on a rare leave from her residency. It was nice to relax around her old friends, even the atmosphere was a little strained between Ginny and Harry.

The biggest piece of news was of course the trial, and avoiding in it conversation was a little awkward. She had not planned on attending the trial. No, that was an understatement; she had repeatedly announced her intentions to stay as far away as possible from that mockery of justice. But after a few days, the hints dropped by her friends, both in person and via owl, had both annoyed her and piqued her interest enough that she woke up early and made her way to the Wizengamot over an hour before the day's session was scheduled to begin in the hopes of avoiding the crush of people.

Mr. Grimpole and his opposing counsel were already at their respective places in the chamber, and the former started when he saw Hermione. He shuffled through a stack of papers and then scurried over to where Hermione took a seat. Throughout their greetings, she could see him shoot dark looks at the defender appointed for Malfoy. She wondered if the trial was going as well as the Daily Prophet claimed.

"Mrs., ah, Ms. Granger, you are very welcome, of course. I did not expect to see you here after our conversation the other day, but I am delighted to see you." If this was delighted, Hermione thought, she was glad not to witness distressed. Sweat beaded on his pale forehead, and his hands twitched and picked at one another. "I must apologise, though, you have come today for nothing. We all have. The members of the Wizengamot will not be happy to hear about this, oh no."

Hermione blinked. "We're here for nothing? What do you mean?"

He glanced again at the other attorney, who sat coolly and appeared not to feel the other man glaring daggers into her back. "I cannot say, but you will not have to wait long. I don't know what the Ministry was thinking, but I am near the end of my patience. It was their idea to try these Death Eaters in the first place, and _then_ they changed the order of the trials so I did not have adequate time to prepare. There is simply no precedent for this type of proceeding, and… " He broke off suddenly when he seemed to remember Hermione's presence. "Again, I apologise," he said stiffly, made his goodbyes, and returned to his stack of paperwork.

The Wizengamot was slowly filling up as its members trickled in, along with the few public figures allowed and the eternal press. Some of them Hermione recognised, and most of those acknowledged her with a nod. She wondered if they were at all curious about her presence there and what they thought her motivation for coming. It was surprising, she thought, that Lucius's appointed defence had never contacted her, but then, she doubted anyone would be stupid enough to try for any character witnesses after he had publicly returned to Voldemort's service. Most likely she had resigned herself to working to prevent the Wizengamot from passing a death sentence on her client.

To Hermione's relief, the day's session formally began only a few moments behind schedule. Whatever this news was that would evidently render their presence today meaningless, she hoped to be out and back to her cottage before lunch. Maybe she could visit with the neighbours over tea again.

The presiding wizard called the Wizengamot to order, and the quiet conversations whispered on all sides died. He called Mr. Grimpole to continue with his witnesses, but the attorney instead announced that the Ministry had recently asked to meet with the two parties and that they had come to a settlement. Except the way he put it, 'had come to a settlement' sounded more like 'were forced into a rotten deal'. He sat down and curtly asked his colleague to elaborate.

The witch rose to her feet and straightened her robes. Not once did she glance at her opponent but explained in a mellifluous voice that the Ministry had realised that it was in the best interest of the people to suspend these proceedings until such a time as Lucius Malfoy could be located. She waxed eloquent for several minutes about the right of a witch or wizard to participate in their own defence and the necessity of maintaining the impartiality of justice in difficult times before finally returning to her seat. There was a discontented rumble from the Wizengamot which rose in volume until the presiding wizard had to order silence.

As there was no word on the rest of the trials, Hermione seriously doubted that the Ministry had suddenly come to the conclusion that their showboat trials would accomplish nothing at all in the way of just punishment. She could not imagine what reason they would have for effectively cancelling this trial in particular, but there was obviously much more to this than anyone was admitting. Unfortunately, she was sure that, as the wife of the accused, she would be the last person to learn the truth of things.

She fumbled her way through the crowd when the Wizengamot was dismissed and hurried out before anyone could catch up with her. If she had not thought it was possible to get worse publicity when the marriage was announced, she was certain that she would find herself mistaken. She did not doubt for a moment that Rita would spin this story as something she had manoeuvred in order to keep her beloved husband out of Azkaban.

Still, the charm against hate mail held, and Hermione's life began to settle back into its usual patterns, with a few key differences. One of these was her regular Sunday tea and a few soirées with her neighbours, and another was Mrs. Weasley's increased protectiveness. She did not actually come out and insist that Hermione find a nice young man or a roommate, but she visited more often than usual and showed up with little protective charms and objects. When she did screw up her courage to go out shopping for the first time – motivated more by desperation at her diminishing larder than real bravery – she endured whispers and hard looks all around her. The first time, it was easier than she had foreseen, and soon enough she barely noticed a thing. Really, it was almost enough to make her forget the nightmares that still plagued her. Soon, she promised herself, she would make an appointment with a Healer about them.

Another unusual change was her slowly-developing friendship with Draco Malfoy. He was the last person to whom she would have expected to be brought closer by recent events, but after her first visit, she found herself feeling sorry for him. Draco had failed Voldemort and so was rejected by most of the friends he had known from his youth, and he had never tried to endear himself to anyone else. Now he was stuck in a Finland and a vastly different life.

The second time she called on him, after having taken very careful precautions that no one should know where she was headed, she was almost as surprised as he was to find her on his front step.

"Granger," he began and stopped. He shook his head. "'s too weird," he muttered. "What are you doing here?"

She looked around as if expecting to find the answer spray-painted on the walls of the little frame house. "I… I'm not really sure. I thought maybe you could… I mean, things have been a little…"

"I don't need your pity," Draco interrupted, glaring at her. They stood like that for a moment, Hermione staring at her shoes and feeling Draco's eyes (her stepson's eyes, how bizarre was that?) burning into her skull.

He relented. "Well, you might as well come in. I received something you should probably have. It isn't mine, I suppose."

Her curiosity was piqued enough that she forgot to be embarrassed. She followed him inside and remarked to herself how nice it looked. The last time, she had not noticed, but it looked as though Draco – or someone – was determined to keep it looking like a real home. He noticed her wide eyes and grunted what might have been a laugh.

"Someone from the… the church comes by to visit me a couple times a week. They seem to think I'm the village cause, a poor orphan or perhaps marginally insane." He was searching through a small writing desk and then a coffee table strewn with knick-knacks as he spoke. "Mikaela brings me sausage and fish and cheese to make sure I don't starve. I don't know why she bothers." He turned around with something wrapped in a plain white handkerchief, and Hermione swore she noted a faint flush on his pale cheeks, which were looking a bit less hollow now. She wondered if Mikaela were a pretty young villager with gold hair and blue eyes who had taken to doting on the stray bird who had fallen here out of nowhere.

"Here," he said, thrusting the handkerchief toward her. "One of my father's old friends sent it. He must have gone through a lot of effort to smuggle it past the Ministry and my protectors." He pronounced that last word with a sneer reminiscent of the boy she had known in school. "I didn't know he had it him, the old poof."

Hermione paused, the small, mysterious object still clutched in her hand. "Do you mean Marius?"

Draco nodded slowly. "How do you… that's where they found you two, isn't it?" For the first time since she had arrived, he did not look bored. "One of these days, Granger, you're going to tell me how much of what that Skeeter woman said is true."

She snorted. "I may, if you refrain from insulting Monsieur Lefidèle, who was a perfect gentleman when we met." She carefully extracted the object from the soft folds of the handkerchief and gasped. It was the wedding ring Lucius had shown her what felt like years ago. She lifted her eyes to Draco in amazement. "How did he find this? The last…" Her voice trailed off as Draco's eyebrows seemed to try to climb his forehead.

"You've seen this before!" he exclaimed. He was silent for a moment before continuing. "Anyway, I don't know how he got it. And I don't know why he did not send it to you. Maybe it's more difficult to smuggle potentially Dark artefacts into the heart of the Ministry than the middle of a Finnish forest."

She barely paid him any attention as she studied the heavy ring in her hand. It looked exactly the same, the tiny gems all in place and the faint scratches on the inside as unreadable as ever. She wanted to recite the spell Lucius had used to reveal the names, but she did not think it was entirely appropriate to do so at the moment. They conversed for a while longer, but her mind was not on the conversation. As soon as she returned to her cottage, she pointed her wand at the ring and breathed the words she had heard Lucius say.

The same list appeared in above the ring in glowing blue letters. Or, it was almost the same list. There was her name, out of place among the names she recognised from wizarding histories.

Lucius Malfoy - Hermione Granger


	20. In the Dark

A/N: This is a bit shorter than usual, but I think you'll like it (grin). Gold stars showered upon anyone who guesses the bit of non-English at the end (and corrects me if I've badly mangled it). Gold stars even if you're close. But fear not, all will be explained in the next chapter next week!

Until then… read, enjoy, review!

Chapter Twenty:

"In conclusion," Hermione said from atop her podium, voice magically enhanced to echo through the hall, "hypnosis shows promising possibilities for our Healers, but as Muggles have discovered, there exists a significant possibility for abuse. With careful use of magic and proper supervision, I believe hypnosis offers an intriguing alternative to excess use of _veritaserum_ and intrusive, potentially destructive legilimency."

The questions that followed were the usual dry, technical and theoretical queries that made up the majority of conferences like this, all except from the last question which came from a young man who looked barely old enough to be out of Hogwart, dressed in purple robes pinstriped with crimson (_pinstriped_ _robes_? Hermione thought) and a bright red felt hat. He stood out from the sea of beige and subdued pastels like a lone neon sign in the night.

"Ms. Granger," he said with the mocking emphasis on the title she barely noticed anymore, "is it true that your research into this area originated with a series of nightmares that began during your captivity with known Death Eater Lucius Malfoy?"

A low rumble emanated from the crowd, the noise of annoyed people who were too well-mannered to shout the speaker down. Some of her colleagues sitting in the front rows rolled their eyes and offered a wry smile to Hermione. She allowed herself a small grin in return before returning her attention to the speaker, a recent protégé of Rita's.

"I'm sorry, I believe you're in the wrong room," she said.

He blinked, and the Quik Quotes quill suspended over a slim scroll in his hand wilted a little. "N-no," he replied haltingly, "I'm… would you please answer the question, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione affected a confused expression. "Well, yes, I _am_ Hermione Granger, but you must be mistaken. This is the session called _Memory Retrieval: Spells, Serum and Beyond._ You must be looking for _Sensationalist Journalism for the Untalented_."

The young man blushed a brighter red than his hat and sat down so hard something creaked. While it was typical for the audience to applause after every presentation, she thought they sounded a little more enthusiastic than usual this time.

After nearly an hour spent shaking hands and expounding on her theme in informal conversation, Hermione slipped out of the vast hall to the grounds of the magnificent castle where the Healers Conference of the Mind, Sponsored by St. Mungo's was being held. They were somewhere in Germany, well-hidden from Muggle eyes in the midst of the Black Forest where a few stretches of greenery still remained in patches over the landscape.

She wandered around the castle, trying to avoid the milling crowd and eating a strawberry almost the size of her hand. Every several yards was stationed a witch or wizard dressed in dark blue, the uniform of the Securors, a sort of second tier of security after the Aurors recently created by combined efforts of several Ministries worldwide. Public and private leaders alike had begun enlisting their service in a hurry; there were many more Securors than Aurors, and every member strove very hard to prove they were as good as the original.

One of them stood a little ways off into the towering trees, tall and somehow ominous in his dark robes. He was facing the same direction as Hermione, so he did not see her, but she did not doubt that he knew someone was near. With his arms crossed in front of his chest, he looked as solid and immobile as the trees rising around him. Only his dark hair and robes ruffled in the wind. Hermione found the sight of this stranger unaccountably comforting as war raged outside this sanctuary. Surely the violence, at a peak even survivors of Grindelwald did not recall, could not last much longer. She barely remembered a time when she did not fear to see a green Dark Mark hanging in the sky.

A particularly strong gust whipped around the castle, and Hermione had to rub her eyes. She thought she had seen the man's hair _shimmer_, of all things. As she was puzzling over this peculiar sight, he turned to face her. He became very still but relaxed into his ready, tense stance again immediately. The moment passed so quickly that, just like the shimmer, she thought she had imagined it. He bowed and then turned back to stare into the woods.

She encountered no more hallucinations as she made a circuit of the castle. People streamed back into the castle as ancient bells announced the beginning of the afternoon sessions. The most sensational of these was a presentation by Milli Werrabridge, a witch barely older than Hermione who claimed to have created a simple potion that would rid the drinker of the Imperius curse. Along with the obvious benefit this would pose, there were whispers that Ministries all over the world had contracted with the major potion makers to brew tonnes of the stuff to force down the throats of their employees, down to the greenest assistants. Well, whatever the political consequences, it might prove the most important development in the war.

Ahead of her, witches and wizards hurried with little regard for their neighbours and shoved and poked each other with their elbows. No one quite brought out their wands to clear a path, but she was sure some of them were tempted. For her part, she had a spot reserved in the front, so she could take her time getting there. People were still milling around the hall, jostling for place and exchanging a few last words, enthusiastic or sceptical, when she arrived and took her seat.

"Hermione!" the man next to her boomed happily, "your presentation was a complete success! I'm sorry I did not stay and speak with you, but you looked busy enough without me."

She smiled as he enfolded her into his embrace. "Thank you, Anthony, I'm flattered. I don't think everyone was quite as impressed as you, but it certainly got people thinking."

They chatted until Milla Werrabridge took the stand. Hermione could not help but notice some of the envious looks cast at her, envious and vaguely disapproving, as if she did not deserve to be on such friendly terms with this powerful man. There was a wing at St. Mungo's named after Anthony Mitherston and probably at several other hospitals around the Wizarding world. He not only contributed sacks upon sacks of Galleons, but he also shared much of the work which came of out his private research facility, staffed by the elite of Healers focused on curses and other damage to the mind.

Not for the first time, not even for the hundredth, Hermione mused that she could not have dreamed of forming such a personal friendship with this man without the Malfoy name behind her, a name she never even used but which followed her nonetheless. She _might_ have been selected to work for his foundation, but he employed dozens of talented witches and wizards and did not have the time to get to know all of them so well.

From the podium, Milla beamed at the crowd and, before she began the body of her presentation, extended her special gratitude to Mr. Mitherston for all the support he and his foundation had offered her. Hermione thought she heard murmurs around her at this, but they died as the witch started into her speech. She listened, fascinated, as Milla traced her research, through books and interviews and endless experimentation.

She spoke just long enough to make her conclusions and the process by which she had arrived to them clear, and then questions filled the rest of the session. Quills scratched throughout the hall, raising a maddening echo like thousands of racing mice. Hermione shifted in her seat; about one in three of the questions actually interested her. Her eyes started to wander, and she smiled to see Securors standing at every entrance and among the audience. Yes, this session in particular was bound to raise attention in many quarters, some of them most unpleasant.

She attended two other sessions that afternoon, wearing into evening, and then with no little relief retired to the small bedroom reserved to her in the castle. That she had a room at all at the palace was impressive, even more surprising was the lack of a roommate. Yes, the Malfoy name had done much for her in a relatively short amount of time. Networking was not among Hermione's strongest skills, but that name did oil the social gears. She descended again to join the other presenters for dinner but could not force herself to stay for the ball. She was exhausted, not accustomed to spending so many hours in a single day around so many people.

Instead, she wandered through the castle, a gargantuan thing built over the course of centuries, not because of any difficulty of construction but because its owners could never settle on a single style or shape. She came across more people like herself than she would have expected, none of them feeling especially sociable but unwilling to retire to bed just yet. They nodded and exchanged greetings and then left on their rambling walks.

Hermione also saw more Securors than she had expected, and to her dismay, they looked increasingly edgy as she became mildly lost in the castle and then centred herself again. Their eyes flashed at every noise and barely managed to avoid jumping when someone rounded a corner. Though she was not normally very sensitive to that sort of thing, she could feel thick wards throughout the castle like heavy fog and spiderwebs. It was cloying, almost suffocating, and suddenly she found herself trying very hard not to break into a run for the nearest exit.

The air was cool and smelled of green grass and flowering trees. She took a deep breath and set off at a slower pace, her wand emitting a pale glow. The castle grounds included a wild garden, rambling much like the castle itself, much different from the rigidly geometric gardens she had seen in France. Stone benches dotted the flora at irregular intervals, carved in ever more whimsical shapes as she continued. Eventually she sat on what appeared to be a giant stone mushroom, almost completely concealed from view on every side by a curtain of weeping willow branches.

Candlelight flickered through tall, iron-barred windows, yellow and warm. As she sat and stared into the night, she started to notice that the lights from the castle were flickering more and more erratically. She tensed and then jumped when she spotted the first green flash through the ground floor windows. The ballroom erupted into brilliant flashes which spread through the castle and too soon outside. Hermione gripped her wand and picked her stealthy way toward the battle.

The crunch of gravel under someone else's foot startled her, but when she spun to see who was following her, she saw no one. She turned back, and a hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled and aimed her wand at her assailant. To her surprise, she was allowed to move enough to catch a clear glimpse of the person's face… and thought fled. She was close enough to see through the Disillusionment of the Securor she had seen earlier, the solid, dark-haired man.

He raised his eyebrows at her in a silent question, and she nodded slowly. She could not think of the first thing to say. As she stared wide-eyed at this apparition, he bent his head toward her and whispered, "I must get you somewhere safe."

She jerked away and shook her head. "I can't leave. It's an ambush, and I'll have the element of surprise. People are going to _die_ here."

"I can well believe," he replied harshly, "that you might believe that you are better equipped to handle a Death Eater attack than witches and wizards trained exactly for such a situation, but I must protest. You will serve no purpose here except as a trophy for a lucky Death Eater." It was disconcerting to see that familiar drawl coming from a stranger's face.

This was not how she had imagined their reunion, but then, she could never predict anything about their interaction. For the moment, they seemed to be on the same side. He was wearing a Securor's uniform, after all, instead of black robes and a white mask. Of course, it could all be a ruse to lure her… where? They were already isolated in this dark garden.

"Fine," she hissed. "I can take you to my house, if you insist."

He shook his head. "It may not be safe." He shook his robes back and proffered his arm. "Take my hand."

It should have sounded perfectly ordinary, but Hermione shivered. Years had passed and nothing, and now she was just supposed to take his hand for an Apparition without an explanation? Again?

She interlaced her fingers with his and drew close enough that their bodies were pressing together. Soon, she was feeling the horrible compression of a Side-along Apparition, and as they neared their destination, something else brushed her. Another ward, she decided. When she could see again, she stood on the slope of a small hill in front an elaborate gate made of a translucent, glassy substance that reflected the moonlight so that it seemed to glow silver.

Beyond the gate rose an edifice significantly smaller than the castle in the Black Forest but, in Hermione's opinion, much more pleasing to the eye. The walls were white and the steep roofs black in the pale light. From what she could see, the château formed three sides of a square around a big open court, complete with a splashing fountain. At the feet of the stone walls, eye-wrenching gardens with vegetation trimmed in fanciful designs cascaded down the hill before fading into a forest she could barely see.

Still holding his hand, Hermione looked up at Lucius to see him returned to his usual self. Charms like Disillusionment did not fare well during Apparition, and she imagined he had other things to concentrate on besides maintaining an illusion which could not matter much now anyway. She disentangled her fingers from his and reached up to touch his hair, white-blond as ever but now cropped short. It was easier to maintain the illusion this way, of course, but she was dismayed to see it.

"Your hair," she said softly.

He chuckled. "Many people have had to make sacrifices during this struggle, my dear. Think of it as my… patriotic duty." He emphasised the word 'patriotic' with a wry twist of his lips.

She smiled involuntarily. It was reassuring to know that whatever else had happened, Lucius Malfoy had not changed in essentials. He squeezed her fingers and leaned forward to lay a soft kiss on her lips. "We must hurry. It will be impossible for anyone to track us once we're inside."

He took her hand again, and he did not stride up to the house, he _ran_. By the time they reached the front entrance, Hermione had a stitch in her side and could hardly breathe. She coughed as the front door swung open, and a diminutive house elf greeted them with a low bow.

"Master!" he exclaimed, "Tingy was not expecting Master, Tingy will go alert the rest of the house elves." The creature turned its bulbous eyes to Hermione and, if possible, they bulged even further. "Mistress! Tingy has not had the honour to meet Mistress yet. Tingy welcomes Mistress to Kastell g' feiz."


	21. Shed a Little Light

A/N: I noticed something from the reviews, that many of you are (rightly) confused. Don't worry, Hermione is, too. But Lucius and I plan to amend this situation!

Chapter Twenty-One:

Hermione stared at her surroundings helplessly. Her mouth worked without making a noise, and then she looked up at Lucius. She drew a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then released it. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefingers as she inhaled and exhaled again. The house elf fidgeted.

"Are you feeling well?" Lucius finally asked as Hermione continued to ignore him and take her deep, deliberate breaths.

She breathed out between her teeth and met his gaze. "I do not have the slightest idea of what is going on here. I am so very close to losing my mind if you don't start explaining _everything_, starting with where the hell you have taken us, why the… Tingy recognizes you _and_ me, what a kastell g' feiz is and what in God's name you've been doing for the past four years!"

"I see," he replied as coolly as ever. "Tingy, bring us a tray with hot tea and firewhiskey. We'll be in the library."

Hermione watched the elf scurry down the corridor, and for the first time, took a moment to really look at this place. Candlelight flickered over gold-veined marble and shone on staircase railings shaped like the gate outside. Graceful white columns framed by russet tapestries announced passages between rooms, now shadowy niches. She tipped her head up but could not see the ceiling for the sparkling chandelier. She sighed. Even without Lucius's confirmation, she thought she could guess where she was.

"If my lady would follow," he said with that irritating little bow and led her up the carpeted staircase. As they walked, candles flickered into life and then died behind them. It was a pretty effect but somewhat unsettling. She was able to catch only glimpses of the changing decoration; the dancing flames reflected off bright tapestry threads and curved surfaces of small sculptures set in niches along the wall.

"Now, let me see if I recall your questions correctly. I have taken us to my home..." When he paused to face her, he raised an eyebrow and quirked his lips in a tiny grin. "I should say, our home, for it is your legal property as well as mine."

Her legal property indeed. The nearest of the sculptures, variegated jade set with onyx, could have paid for a year's lease on her little cottage, if not the cottage itself. His easy treatment of a subject that had kept her up nights infuriated her.

"Anyone who thinks to look for either you or me here will not find it easy hunting. These walls are protected by spells older than my family name. The Dark Lord is very likely the only wizard living who could penetrate its magic uninvited."

_The Dark Lord_, he had said. She quashed the questions that bubbled up inside her and told herself that in any case, his actions would speak louder than his words. Anger was already becoming lost under a surge of curiosity.

"That, of course," he continued, "is why my house elf recognises you. I'm sure you know that house elves possess a curiously strong brand of magic quite unique to them. As long as you and I are married, every elf in my home and the homes of my relations will know you as my wife."

She looked up at him when he spoke of their marriage, but in the wavering light she could not see the expression on his face. Though he had not asked, she found herself mentally preparing her litany of reasons for why she had never quite gotten around to filing for a divorce or an annulment. Mainly she had never sought a legal separation because his name, reviled as many wizards professed to be by its associations, still commanded a great deal of respect.

Many people recalled the power Lucius and his father, Abraxas, had wielded in society and probably feared that any outright display of contempt for anyone intimately connected with the family would bring down the wrath they too keenly remembered. Curses and tragic accidents with artefacts, potions gone sour and deranged pets had caused the deaths of dozens of enemies of the Malfoy clan. Besides the fear, though, the simple fact of their vaults attracted people to Hermione's side like moths to a flame. She had never touched the money, but everyone knew it was there for her to claim.

Once, against her better judgement, she had visited those vaults. Until then, she had never understood why people should continue to hold the Malfoy name in such high regard when its living patriarch was known to have committed atrocities they could not bring themselves even to mention aloud. The gold was the least of it, filling trunks and piled carelessly in small mountains. Gems and other precious metals littered the floor and overflowed from what appeared to be old-fashioned carriages.

But it was the artefacts that had caught Hermione's eye, whirring and humming at her, some shrieking when she approached. Mirrors swirled invitingly, and an obsidian crystal ball seemed to emit reddish smoke. What she had seen then made the niche sculptures here look positively drab. She could not have named most of them, let alone puzzled out their function. Her voracious curiosity had been dampened a little then in the face of these mystical devices.

"Kastell g' feiz," Lucius said, interrupting her reminiscing, "is Breton. My forefather Verdan Malfoy migrated here from the north of France with his Breton wife Melusine and built this castle for her. She named it _castle of faith_, a play on his name."

"Very clever," she murmured.

He gave her a dry look and ushered her into a vast room which lit up by degrees as they entered. The warm scents of leather and old parchment and tea greeted her like old friends as she gazed wide-eyed at the shelves of books and scrolls that lined the walls. It was no surprise that he would lead her to this gorgeous place before anywhere else.

"Your last question will take a bit more time to answer. Tea?" He gestured to a small, round table set between two bookshelves. She sat as he poured from a steaming tea pot and nodded when he held up a decanter of whiskey. In that first shock of seeing him, she had not noticed the changes four years had wrought on him. They were not the usual changes associated with age, quite the opposite. Whatever he was doing with his time had kept him in shape; he was leaner than she remembered, not that he had been soft before. She could not tell if the shadows she saw around his eyes were the product of exhaustion or merely the uncertain light.

She took the cup and saucer in hand and leaned back in the leather chair to listen to his tale. It was a surprisingly comfortable seat, fashioned to grant its occupant many comfortable hours with a book or in conversation. She thought wistfully that it would have been pleasant to spend some of the past few years here, lounging by the light of antique candelabras in this chair that hugged her like a glove. Even the tea was better here and hot with whiskey.

"It is impossible to understand where I have been since last we met without a bit of flashback. When I made your acquaintance in Paris and subsequently fled the city with you, it was widely assumed in certain circles that I had forsaken the Dark Lord once and for all. The discovery of Bellatrix's corpse added to this certainty of treachery a fear that together, you and I planned to destroy any who might wish me harm.

"When they found me at Edouard's home, therefore, it was a moment of great relief. Surely I could not hunt them down if I was in their captivity, and they had noticed, of course, that your friends seemed to regard me as an enemy. They were so relieved, in fact, that they were… a bit careless with me. The Dark Lord's orders were to kill me on sight, but presumably they believed I could still be of use to them, if only to curry favour with Dark Lord when I was handed over to his every whim."

Hermione winced at the thought of Voldemort getting his hands on Lucius. Whatever else he might deserve, she did not think she could wish such torture on anyone. Not even Rita Skeeter, though she came close.

A faint smile flickered across his face as he paused in his tale. "I was always amazed that your Order retained the services of Severus Snape; I imagined Dumbledore to be a great fool to trust such a man so obviously aligned with the Dark Lord. To this day I cannot decipher what the man's intentions are."

At this Hermione gave a short laugh. "The same as yours, I would guess: survival."

Lucius returned the chuckle and nodded, gesturing at her in particular with his cup. "Indeed. Severus had known or had guessed that the Death Eaters would find me soon enough, and he had a Portkey ready just for that occasion. If they had killed me as ordered, he would not have had the chance to use it, but if there's one thing you can count on, my dear, it's the overconfidence of men who believe that their blood alone makes them worthy of recognition."

This took Hermione aback. Her eyes widened, and she nearly choked on her tea.

He raised an eyebrow. "If I may continue?"

She nodded silently.

"The Death Eaters had another mission that night, a raid, and during the confusion, Severus slipped me the Portkey. It was a powerful bit of magic charmed uniquely to me. Of course, he did not tell me where it would take me, or it is likely that I would have refused.

"I took hold of the Portkey… I believe it was an empty packet of Chocolate Frogs… and found myself a moment later in the fireplace of the Headmistress of Hogwarts"

Finally Hermione found her voice. "Professor McGonagall? But she stayed with me after the Death Eaters left, and… and it's _impossible_ to Apparate to or from school grounds." How many times she had impressed this point upon Harry and Ron she could not remember.

"Yes, I was perplexed myself. As it was explained to me, while Hogwarts _is_ heavily guarded by charms and wards that render Apparition impossible, it is still somewhat vulnerable by the Floo network. I am not an expert in magical physics, of course, but I understand that Severus sent me not via the usual Portkey route, which functions much like an Apparition, but via the Floo network. The problem with this method in general is that one can only Port to fireplaces attached to the network."

Hermione's head spun. No, she did not understand magical physics as much as she would have liked; it was one of the few areas of study where she seemed to lack a basic knack for understanding. Maybe she had grown up knowing too much about Muggle physics (for an eleven year-old) to grasp the very different yet complimentary system by which the magical world operated.

"So you just… appeared in Professor McGonagall's office? She must have been surprised to see you there."

Lucius chuckled again and replied in the affirmative. He had thought that McGonagall must have had a hand in concocting the Portkey scheme and had set wards to keep him inside or he simply would have walked out of the castle. Perhaps not, on second thought – he would not wish to risk a chance encounter in the halls. But she had appeared as shocked as he was to find him covered in ash and sitting behind her desk. Naturally, she had magically bound him within an inch of his life while she pondered what to do with this gift.

While she deliberated, the Ministry had decided to move his trial forward on the Wizengamot's docket. She knew that she had to produce him for his trial but wondered if he could not be of more service in a more discreet fashion (all this, Lucius explained, she had told him during all the hours she insisted on keeping watch over him herself). Finally, she confided to the Minister of Magic himself that she held Lucius Malfoy captive in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts. "That was an interesting piece of information, that room. I must say, I had no suspicion that anything like it existed at Hogwarts."

The Minister, in a rare fit of competence and even foresight, had agreed with her that the wizarding world would best be served by a Lucius Malfoy working undercover for the Ministry rather than one locked in Azkaban. Snape had later confirmed Lucius's story that Lord Voldemort wanted him dead and had agreed that Azkaban would probably prove a death sentence for the man.

"The Minister could hardly allow my trial to continue without me when I was perfectly capable of attending, so he arranged with my defence to suspend all proceedings until I could stand trial. As far as I know, those are the only three people who know the truth of my life these past few years."

By this time, they had finished the tea and moved on to taking the whiskey straight. Hermione drank very little; it seared her throat and stomach, and she knew that this was a very wrong time to lose control of her faculties. When he finished, silence fell over the pair. Hermione could not decide exactly how she felt right now, about his story or about him, so she asked him what he had been doing at the conference that night.

That turned out to be a much simpler, if chilling, story. The Minister had received word that the Death Eaters would attack the conference in order to destroy Millie Werrabridge's findings and generally terrorise the population. It would have been easier just to kill her at home, of course, but the Death Eaters never did anything easy when it could be flashy. Hermione had never known him to speak so openly and so scornfully of his… former associates and told him so.

"I am far from convinced that equality with Muggles and Muggle-borns on the whole is the ideal route for wizarding society to take, but as you said, it comes down to the question of my survival. At the moment, I feel my existence is more likely to continue if I side with the Ministry." He paused for a moment and looked at her, _really_ looked at her for the first time that night. "And… I am glad to see you again. It has been easier for me to keep a distant eye on you than vice-versa, but I did volunteer specifically for this assignment knowing that it would bring me close to you."

Only a day ago she had been certain that her feelings for Lucius Malfoy had faded to… perhaps a fond memory and a rueful amusement that she had ever been so naïve as to believe that they might have a future together. But as he said those words, her heart fluttered a little. Dammit. Now she would never get him out of her head.

"You've done very well for yourself, Hermione," he said softly. "I should not be surprised if you were a serious candidate for Minister of Magic yourself in a decade or two. Not surprised at all."

She shifted her cup and saucer to one side of the table so she could rest her elbow there and her head in her hand. "Is that why I'm here?" she asked. "You want to ally yourself with a rising star?" She should have guessed he would reappear in her life the moment he saw something he wanted. Perhaps he had foreseen some of this back then and that was why he had not objected too strenuously to her wild idea to get married.

Her other hand lay beside her saucer, and he leaned over to take it. "You're here so that star has a chance to rise." She looked up, surprised. "You weren't the primary target tonight, but I have no doubt that any one of the Death Eaters would have been happy to bring you in as a bonus, especially if the main attack failed. It's been long delayed in coming, but I believe that the final battle is coming much sooner than people generally expect.

"I don't want to ally myself with the Dark Lord or with the Ministry, my dear. Neither of them have impressed me nearly enough to risk my life again for their respective causes. Only you, your headmistress, and your former professor Severus have shown any significant amount of sense."

He looked as if he were about to say more, but Hermione could not hide her fatigue any longer and barely managed to cover with her free hand a gaping yawn. The earnest expression on his face faded back to cool amusement.

"I'm sure you're exhausted," he said as he withdrew his hand and sat back in his chair. "I don't mean to impose, but I would feel much better if I could keep watch over you tonight. There are over a dozen guest bedrooms you can choose from, and I can send Tingy or an owl with a note if there's anyone you'd like to reassure right now."

She smiled at the unspoken question behind the words. By morning, the attack would have made the front page of the Daily Prophet, and she would not be surprised to see herself listed as a missing person. She could think of half a dozen people who would be worried about her, but she did not think it prudent to jeopardise their temporary safety here like that. After a moment's thought, she settled on sending a single note to the Weasleys. She scribbled a few generic reassurances on the parchment Lucius provided and bit back a laugh at the grimace that twisted his lips when he saw the address. She was certain that his owl had never been sent to such an inferior destination before.

When she finished, he stood and offered his arm as he led her to her guest quarters. "Of course," he murmured, "I would not dream of preventing you from sleeping anywhere you like. As I said, this is as much your home as it is mine." She looked up at him to see if he meant what she thought he meant. Judging by the small smile hovering on his lips, she thought he was.


	22. Surrounded by Stories

A/N: While looking up more Breton online, I realized that I probably used the wrong word for 'of' earlier. It's awfully nerdy of me, especially since my quick internet searches won't tell me what the right form of 'of' is for my context and I highly doubt my construction is grammatically correct anyway, but it's driving me nuts.

Also, a thousand apologies for this late update. I take full responsibility… by blaming school and personal stuff. Especially the personal stuff. Thinking in circles about things already done has suffocated my muse.

-sigh- I really did not intend for the ending to this chapter to go the way it did, but those two were just so happy to see each other! Let me just take this moment to point out the M rating again. Gold stars to readers who get the song reference in this chapter title (I'm such a dork).

ON TO

Chapter Twenty-two:

She could not deny that she was tempted by his offer, but neither could she deny that she knew it was a bad idea. Though come to think of it, any interaction between them other than the usual Order/Death Eater enmity was a bad idea. With an ill-concealed sigh, she demurred. She was very tired and could barely _think_, let alone…

She was certain that she was in shock, anyway; shouldn't she be much more upset or shocked to see him after so long? It was definitely shock, she decided. She fully expected to freak out the next morning. It was a little disappointing that Lucius did not show any visible reaction to her disinclination to take him up on his offer. Instead, he called Tingy to prepare a room whose name she did not catch. It sounded like more Breton.

He led her down labyrinthine corridors, all grand and soon blurred together in her mind. Finally, he stopped and opened a door of bone white wood into a bedroom decorated in ivory and silver. "Melusine called this _kambr eus al loar_, chamber of the moon," he explained as candelabras burst alight.

"It's beautiful," she breathed as she examined the room. Silken drapes the colour of fresh milk covered pale grey walls, and the carpet at her feet looked lush and inviting for bare feet. Near one wall, a four-poster bed rested like a vision from a fairy-tale book, carved from cream-coloured wood and laid with matching accoutrements striped with glimmering silver. She was surprised that it was so simply decorated until Lucius spoke a quiet word and the walls and ceiling seemed to vanish, replaced by a panoramic vista of the night sky. She gasped. It appeared that they were standing on a cloud in the middle of the heavens.

"This room is little used," he said as she made a slow circuit of the room. "The enchantment makes most people uncomfortable, and it is rather plain otherwise." Here his lips curved in a small smile. "But I thought you might enjoy it."

She turned to him with a radiant expression. "Thank you, I think I will." Her smile faded a little as the silence stretched between them.

"If you're comfortable, I'll say goodnight," Lucius finally said.

She nodded and watched him leave without another word. Very strange. Despite his laconic demeanour, he seemed almost… awkward around her. Well, if he was, it served him right. He had had all the opportunity in the world to keep up with her during the past few years, and not once had he made the slightest effort to contact her. True, he had been serving the Order and likely could not afford to break his cover at any moment, but he was clever. Surely he could have schemed a way to let her know that he still lived, if nothing else.

She stripped to her underwear and climbed into the bed. It felt even better than it looked, and to her surprise, there was none of the mustiness she associated with little-used rooms. The sheets were cool to the touch but soon warmed around her. The stars winked in their familiar constellations, and the moon shone serenely down on her. Exhaustion should have sent her off to sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but she discovered that her mind was whirling too quickly to allow her to drift off.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes again and resigned herself to watching the stars sail past in their stately dance around her little cloud island. She thought about the last four years and all she had built up during that time. The reporter had been right about one thing; her career as a Healer really had taken off with her research into the nightmares that had plagued her ever since she held Bellatrix's wand in her hands. She had been convinced that some sort of spell had been responsible, but as search after search came up with no helpful results, she began to investigate the possibility that Lucius had been right, that the effect was psychological, not magical.

It had turned out that both of their theories had touched on the truth. An object that Bellatrix had touched once would not have had that same effect on Hermione, but the Death Eater had carried it for so long that it was somehow endowed with some of her fanatical evil, like a piece of paper might absorb the oils from a person's fingers and become stained. Hermione had never before been sensitive to residues like these, but she had learned that extremely powerful and single-minded witches and wizards could leave a taint like a smudge on objects they used regularly.

But like a smudge or a stain, the touch of evil should not have affected her as it did. It was not contagious; she might have been able to sense it, but it was incapable of actually harming her. After many months, she realised that her subconscious must have picked up on the evil, construed it as a serious threat to her, and created her elaborate nightmares as the perceived threat. That left the question of how realistic her visions were, which, for obvious reasons, she had never been able to answer.

During this time, she had started seeing a Healer recommended to her by one of her wealthy neighbours, something like a Muggle psychiatrist. As they progressed in Hermione's therapy, she also continued her research and realised that she had never been so fascinated by any subject, even in school. The mind was far more complex than Arithmany, Ancient Runes, or even Transformation. Every one was a little different, but they generally functioned in the same way.

So she had entered into one of St. Mungo's training programs, and the rest was history. He work was more theoretical and specialised than the average Healer's; to draw a Muggle comparison, her program resembled a psychology doctorate more than a psychiatric medical degree. She had excelled in her studies, as she always did, and that scandalous union everyone knew about and no one discussed, had helped her much more than it had hurt her.

It had not really even affected her personal life, at least not in the ways she had expected. Somehow, she still found time and opportunity to date, albeit very quietly. None of those relationships had ultimately amounted to anything serious enough for her to take legal measures, but the possibility had always remained in the back of her mind. No, what her wedding had affected the most were her friendships, namely with Ron and Harry and even a little with Ginny.

Lying in that incredible bedroom with the stars floating on orbit around her, she should have fallen immediately into a peaceful slumber. But all she could do now was re-live every argument she'd ever had with one or other of her best friends about Lucius – why she had stayed married to him, how she could carry that legacy, what she would do if he ever returned to public life, what exactly had happened during those weeks in France.

They always made up after these fights, but it soon became clear that it was a subject best left alone. And when something so big loomed between them, they found conversation awkward and stilted, everyone careful not to touch on the forbidden topic. She could not talk about some of the new friends she was making or the guys she dated. It had hurt at first and now, reminiscing in a Malfoy bedroom, she felt almost sick with remembered unhappiness.

There was no way she was getting any sleep tonight. The only thing that could distract her from her painful memories, she decided, was a midnight excursion to that vast library. While she was sure that her status as mistress of the house would not grant her access to _every_ volume therein, she felt certain that she would find a sufficiently wide variety of books to keep her occupied.

She left the luxurious bed, changed back into her wrinkled robes, and called Tingy to show her the way to the library. This time she trained her eyes on her surroundings, hoping she would be able to find her way back to the starlit room on her own. Not that she would be staying here long, she reminded herself. Whatever was going on here, it was clear to her that this… arrangement could not be permanent, despite what he had said about her legal ownership. Lucius had his mysterious work to do, and she had a house of her own.

Soon she found herself back in the library, breathing in those comforting aromas and relaxing a little more. She saw candlelight shining in several small scattered niches, lending the rambling room a shadowy, dreamlike air. When Tingy asked if she wanted anything to eat or drink, Hermione politely refused and set off exploring the stacks. She saw books bound in leather and canvas, scrolls of creamy parchment tied up with gold braid and twine.

She could not have said how much time passed while she browsed the volumes until she settled on a book on vampires, gorgeously illuminated and smelling faintly of garlic. She chuckled as she traced the intricate lettering on the cover. Tiny pictures formed the letters, some of them gruesome and some funny. It reminded her of very old Bibles, the kind produced for kings before the days of the printing press.

One candlelit niche near the stack glowed invitingly, a few candles arranged on a small table near an overstuffed chair big enough to fit two or three people, as long as they were close. She curled up and lost herself in archaic English and magnificent illustrations, pleased and surprised that the information appeared quite accurate, from what little she knew of vampires.

As she struggled through a dense passage about the qualities shared by most vampires around the world, including a seeming lack of weight that rendered their footsteps utterly silent, a hand descended on her shoulder, and she almost screamed. She jumped, and the book fell out of her grasp to the chair.

"It's easy to be silent," Lucius remarked over her shoulder, "when the carpet is thick."

As her heart slowed back to its usual rhythm, she glared and rearranged herself into a more dignified sitting position. "What are you doing here? What time is it?" It did not help any that while she was still wearing a robe from the previous day hastily thrown over her underwear, Lucius was wearing a silken dressing gown, glinting the colour of dark wine in the flickering light. He looked like a duke at home in his palace.

"I should be not be surprised if it has passed two o'clock by now. As for why I'm here, I could not sleep and decided to make good use of the time. I have letters to write, and the library generally has a calming effect on me. Of course, it is not my habit to sit in here and read about vampires in the middle of night."

Hermione picked up the book and closed it before gently laying it on the arm of the chair. "It's a lovely manuscript," she commented, her eyes lingering on the lettering. "I couldn't sleep either. This is all so strange." She lifted her eyes back to him and blushed faintly under his intense scrutiny. She hoped the flush on her cheeks was not visible in the wavering candlelight.

For a few seconds he was silent, looking like he was pondering something, and then he appeared to come to a decision. "May I sit?"

She nodded and moved to one side. Now that he had explained, however briefly, what had occupied him since the last time she saw him, she wondered what he was going to do after they parted ways again. She was sure they would after tonight and considered once more her decision to sleep alone. It would have been nice… _very_ nice to stay with him, but she was sure it would unsettle the stability she had finally started to build up.

"I can imagine how perplexing all this must be for you," he said, "and you're handling it admirably." She gave him a wan smile. "Earlier tonight I was not entirely forthcoming with you."

She wasn't surprised and told him so in her driest tone. He chuckled. "Of course you're not. When I predicted that the final confrontation with the Dark Lord was coming shortly, I did not say how shortly. In fact, I believe that this was… an opening volley, the first salvo in that battle. As Ministry attention is turned toward Germany and Aurors are combing through the castle and its surroundings, Death Eaters from all over the world are entering England, singly and in small groups. I am certain that they will strike within the week while Aurors are chasing false leads all over the continent."

Hermione's heart stopped, and she couldn't breathe. She stared at Lucius, frozen and wordless with shock and horror. "What…" she began and stopped. Her mouth was parched. She licked her lips and tried again. "What can we do?" She shivered. How could he throw his lot in with her now when Voldemort's forces were converging on an unsuspecting population even as they spoke?

Instead of replying, he called Tingy and requested cocoa and biscuits for the mistress and writing materials for himself. He asked if she would like a cigarette, and she refused. She had not smoked in years now and did not plan to start again. "First I am going to write to Minerva McGonagall and reassure her that you are safe."

A little of her paralysing fear fell away into shame as Hermione remembered that her friends must be worried sick about her, unheard from after a Death Eater strike.

"She will consult with the Order as soon as possible, and if necessary, I will make myself known to them. Rest assured, my dear, you and your friends will not be defenceless."

Tingy arrived with another silver tray much like that which had borne the tea service earlier. Now it held a small, steaming black pot banded with silver, a matching cup and plate, a roll of parchment, and an iridescent blue quill. After carefully arranging the candles on the far edge of the little table in front of them, Tingy set down the tray and bowed low. Lucius dismissed her with a wave and instructions to return for the letter when he finished. He handed the mug to Hermione and began to pour cocoa from the pot.

She took a deep breath of the rich aroma, and a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She took a sip and discovered it tasted even better than it smelled. The biscuits, she soon discovered, were topped with pear jam and dipped in chocolate. After inquiring after her satisfaction, Lucius began writing. She drank the cocoa and felt her insides slowly warm up back to normal. As he wrote, she picked up the book and, careful not to spill crumbs or drops of cocoa on the ancient pages, and started reading where she had left off. They sat in a companionable silence, broken only by the scritch-scratch of his quill and their quiet breath.

Is how we would have been in that alternate dimension where we lived together as a married couple, Hermione wondered. Although it was two a.m. and Lucius was working against the clock to counter Voldemort's army and Hermione was trying to absorb a colossal change in her comfortable world, sitting here on this chair big enough to be a loveseat with him felt…. right. It felt normal, if that word could ever be applied to the two of them.

Her knees and back grew sore as she sat rigid in a single position, and soon she had to stretch a little and readjust. She turned so she was facing away from Lucius, leaned against the back of the chair, and tucked her legs under her. This close, she could feel the warmth from his body. As she read, she heard parchment tear and rustle as he folded it. He was done with his letter, then.

She swallowed in anticipation, wondering what he would do next and trying to keep her posture casual. From behind her, Lucius shifted, and her heart sped up. She thought she could feel his breath warm on her neck. When his hand touched her shoulder, she was proud of herself for not jumping even a little.

"Tell me what you've learned while we've been sitting here," he said in a quiet, amused tone.

She leaned back a little onto the solidity of his chest and smiled when his arm came to rest in a lazy curve across her waist. Just because spending the night together would be a really bad idea didn't mean she could not enjoy a human touch for a few minutes.

"I'd never thought of it before," she said slowly, "but the physics of vampires… of their existence… is very odd. There shouldn't be anything intrinsically inhuman about them; they were once as human as you or me. But something happens when they're turned… I don't know what it is. Suddenly they have all this strength and speed, and they're practically weightless." She sighed. "I've never understood the physics of magic. It's like they exist… somehow in another dimension, one that intersects with ours."

She laughed at her words and twisted her head around to see the expression on his face. He was not laughing in the slightest but was looking at her with a smile to make her forget to breathe.

"What?"

"Nothing," he replied. "Please, continue."

"That's all I have for now. I've always wondered what it is that causes vampirism, how the bodies don't rot and fall to bits. Is it a spell? Is it something like a potion in the blood of the sire?" She tried to shrug, but it was awkward in her present position. "What do you think?"

His smile widened and became mischievous. In that moment, she thought she could see the adolescent Lucius had once been. "If I admit that vampires are the furthest thing from my mind right now, would you be offended?"

She dropped her eyes and was sure she was blushing again. How he could make her revert to a shy schoolgirl like that, she could not begin to imagine. "It depends."

"On what?"

With no little courage, she straightened and raised her eyes to stare straight into his. "On what you _have_ been thinking about."

"Is that all?" His voice was velvety soft. "I was thinking about the warmth you emanate when you're this close." He raised a hand to trail down the side of her face. Funny, she had been thinking the same thing. "I was thinking that it hardly seemed fair that you should have grown more lovely since we parted ways. I was thinking that I had forgotten how delicious you are." His hand insinuated its way into her hair, curly and tangled and frizzy from her restless night. "I was thinking about how easy it would be to get lost in you."

While he was waxing poetic, she was thinking that she was no longer that shy schoolgirl or the hesitant young woman he had known in Paris. She turned so that she was facing him more directly, but before she could make her move, Tingy appeared in the room with a pop. Hermione chuckled and moved a little ways away. She could see Lucius's jaw tighten as he indicated the letter and ordered the house-elf to send it immediately. Her annoyance at the manner in which he treated the elf was surpassed by her amusement at his irritation. It was so rare to see him show such visible emotion.

She grinned. "Story of us, isn't it?" This time, she was not going to wait for that magical right moment. She moved again, sliding one leg around until she was sitting on his lap. "You once said you'd wait for my permission, so I'll extend you the same courtesy."

He did not say anything but drew her into a deep kiss. This close, she could feel that though he had grown a little leaner during the past few years, he had also grown harder. He felt like iron pressed against her, wrapped in silk. One of his hands rested on her bare thigh, exposed in her present position. She shifted, and he made a low noise in the back of his throat. What was… oh, that. Now she could feel him pressed against her core, separated only by a couple of thin layers of fabric.

Hadn't she come to the sensible conclusion that this was a _bad_ idea? Well, come to think of it, they never had properly consummated their marriage. This was as good a time as any for that, though it would mean that she could not annul it now.

She broke off the kiss for a few seconds to tug his dressing gown down his arms, and he unhooked the clasps that held the front of her robes together. It only took another moment for him to unhook her bra and pull it away from her body. The candlelight was beautiful on his pale skin, sketching warm and mysterious patterns across his chest and arms. He was hot against her bare torso, already touched with a light sheen of sweat. As he quit her lips to kiss her jawline to her neck and collarbone, his hand travelled up her leg to slip under her panties and cup her bottom. Slowly she started to grind against him and was gratified to feel every muscle in his body tense as he drew a sharp breath.

"I hope you're not too attached to these," he whispered as he reached into the pocket of his dressing gown, now laying in a puddle on the chair.

"I have others."

He touched the tip of his wand to the scrap of fabric between her legs. "Are you certain?"

"Certain that if you don't hurry up, I'll kill you here and now."

He chuckled as he touched the tip of his wand to her panties. It was rather less dramatic but more comfortable than simply ripping them. The garment fell apart at the seams, and he cast aside the pieces. She untied the belt that held his dressing gown together at his hips and shivered as the silk brushed the inside of her thighs. The wand tumbled to the floor when he released it to take her bottom in a firm grip. She lifted up on her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck as she began to brush over his erection. She got a certain evil pleasure from teasing him like this, but she could not take it for long, her own arousal throbbing almost painfully between her legs.

She lowered herself slowly onto him, making small helpless noises as he entered her. It had been awhile for her, and at first she was uncomfortably tight. But as they found their rhythm, pleasure blossomed inside her. Their kisses were fervent now, bruising between gasps to catch their breath. Her hair stuck to her face and her neck and occasionally insinuated itself between their lips. Lucius laughed whenever this happened and whispered that he loved it.

Soon her knees started aching from the unusual motion, and she stretched them out to wrap them around his waist.

"Are you uncomfortable?" he asked in a rush of breath.

"A little," she admitted.

"Then shall we adjourn to someplace more appropriate?"

Her head cleared enough for her to wonder who in the world said that kind of thing in the middle of love-making in the twenty-first century. His grey-blue eyes glittered, and his cheeks were flushed. Lucius Malfoy, that was who.

"That sounds lovely."

He groped the chair cushion blindly, searching for the wand which had fallen on the floor earlier. She giggled and slowly unbent one of her legs. She dragged her foot on the floor until she felt the slender length of wood. The carpet was thick enough that she could bury her toes in the lush fibres and grasp the wand. With a flexibility she did not know she possessed, she bent her leg again, this time in the other direction, and retrieved the wand.

A moment later, they Apparated to Hermione's room (apparently it was possible to Apparate between rooms in the house) and in one fast, fluid motion, Lucius laid Hermione on her back. This position was definitely easier on her and more comfortable here atop a feather-light comforter than it would have been on the library chair. She loved the way their bodies were touching down their entire length, hot and damp and tangled together.

All of sudden, the manor shook around them, and they both went still, locked together and hearts palpitating in time. Hermione's wide eyes met Lucius's. "What was that?" For once, he looked genuinely worried and did not reply. She held him tightly and listened to his ragged breath slow with hers. So many emotions were churning inside her at the moment: worry, confusion, extreme irritation, and all of it was fogged by a coital haze.

The house shook again. Before she could gather her wits enough to hold a reasonable conversation on mysterious rumblings of family estates, Tingy burst into the room. None of the candles were lit, and the glow from the stars was muted, but she still wished she had something to throw atop her and Lucius. This was by far the oddest moment of her sex life, interrupted mid-coitus by a house-elf who was saying something about the wards.

Oh God, the wards. It was happening. It was happening in the middle of the best sex she had had in too long. This was yet another reason to despise Voldemort. If he or any other Death Eater had burst into the room right now, she did not think she would have any trouble casting an Unforgiveable.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," Lucius whispered as he detangled himself from her. "They must have intercepted the letter I sent. I imagine I'll need your help if you're…"

She attempted a smile. "I'll do my best." She wasn't sure she succeeded.

He pulled her close for one last kiss before standing and pulling on the robes he Summoned. Her own wand lay on the floor beside the bed, and soon she had followed his example. In a remarkably short time, they were dressed, and her heart was almost back to its usual pace. She wanted to scream. Most of the sensation in her body was still concentrated between her thighs, making it impossible to think clearly.

He linked hands with her and gave one last regretful look at the mussed bed. "That is by no means over." Then he hurried from the bedroom, pulling Hermione alongside him to meet the Death Eaters at the gate.


	23. Hither and Thither and PellMell

A/N: Yay, less late than last time! I think I'm on a roll! No special notes this time, so I'll just get on with it. Ooh wait, I do have one note. This chapter is dedicated to Wikipedia, without which this chapter would have been a lot more "that one spell" and "the really painful spell" and so on.

EDIT: For those of you who received an alert that there was a new chapter (or two), it's sort of a lie. One of my lovely readers pointed out a few discrepancies, which I had to change as soon as possible. I'm sorry to inform you, readers, but I'm not really infallible. (laugh)

Read, enjoy, review!

Chapter Twenty-three:

The first few corridors they raced through Hermione recognised, but they took a left where she would have taken a right to reach her moon room, and she was lost again. It was disconcerting, running at full tilt through corridors she did not know. To make matters more confusing, none of the little nice sculptures they passed looked at all familiar. She would have thought that she would have remembered a handful of them, but none triggered her memory. A sculpture of glass or transparent stone had shattered during one of the quakes that assailed the house, leaving bright shards on its platform and the carpeted hallway.

A few minutes later, she found out that this was because they were not headed toward the front door. When they came to a halt, she was at a small entrance, hidden from the Death Eaters at the gate. Lucius had extinguished the candles in the hall, so their only steady illumination radiated from the moon and stars. From here she could see flashes of light slice through the night air as they tried spell after spell to break through the wards. The cool air brushed any remaining fog from her brain, and she felt ready to take on a squad of Death Eaters. A troop? A platoon? Something that ask Lucius later.

She gripped her wand. "Are we going to ambush them?"

Because the mansion's elaborate gables cast deep shadows over them, she could not see the expression on his face when he replied. But to her surprise, he sounded amused. "I do not doubt your skill, and I am flattered that you think so highly of mine, but I think it would be best to augment our numbers before attempting such a manoeuvre. Or do you truly believe you and I alone are capable of defeating a dozen Death Eaters, quite possibly with the Dark Lord at their head."

Hermione swallowed and stared at the shadowy group standing before the glimmering gate. "No, I suppose not. Then we're going to get help?"

"You're half right. You are going to get help, and I am going to keep Augustus Rockwood out of my silver cabinet. Last time he was in there, he stole a very fine set of spoons given as a gift to my grandfather by one of the mages of the Russian czar's court."

Hermione opened her mouth to ask about the spoons – spoons? – but then she realised that the aside was meant to distract her from what he was proposing. "You are not taking on these people single-handedly! Harry's bad enough with his hero complex; you're supposed to have a healthy sense of self-preservation."

He chuckled. "I certainly do not plan on sacrificing myself, Hermione. I have complete faith in my wards and the magic within these walls and in you. Can you perform a Side-Along Apparition?"

"I can."

When he spoke again, she could hear the smile in his words. "I never doubted it. Now, I want you to go to someone you trust, perhaps McGonagall, and take them to a spot I will indicate to you. It will be a cumbersome process, but you must bring as many people as you think necessary to fight off the Dark Lord's followers.

"Do you see that hedge there, trimmed in the shape of a winged horse?" he asked, indicating the fantastical shrub in question.

"Yes."

"Good. The wards around the house begin there, so that is where you will bring reinforcements. I will recommend that you do not make your way straight through the grounds but that you attack them from the direction in which they arrived." He paused.

"Am I correct in assuming that you are responsible for some of the more successful strategies employed by the Order and the Ministry's Aurors against the Death Eaters?'

Well, this was no time for false modesty. "I contributed to them, yes." How that was relevant now, she could not imagine.

"McGonagall implied as much. Then I am certain that my faith in you is not misplaced."

She desperately wished she could see him. Of course, he had just as much control over his facial expressions as over his voice, but it would have been reassuring nonetheless to see those familiar lines and angles and piercing grey eyes.

He spoke only one more word, but his voice was soft as silk. "Go." And before she could touch him one last time, squeeze his hand or brush his hair back or kiss him, he had returned to the house. The door shut behind him, leaving Hermione cold and very alone in the night.

Blinking furiously, she hurried to the distinctive hedge as quickly as she could while maintaining absolute silence. Stop it, she told herself, he's right. It was foolish to think we could take on those people without any help. I was foolish to think we could. In order to Apparate back here, with someone else in tow no less, she had to focus on the landscape and stop dwelling on Lucius. A minute or two passed silently as she took a quick but thorough mental photograph of the garden and then Apparated to a much more familiar locale.

Insects chirruped, and music drifted through the streets of Hogsmeade. She would have liked to hire a carriage, but a brief glance around the village showed empty streets between homes and buildings tightly shut up against the terrors of the night. No one would risk stepping outside their wards, not even to take her to Hogwarts. If she could manage to fly on a broom without losing her dinner (well, her cocoa and biscuits), that would have been her next best option. As it was, though, she was reduced to walking the distance, vulnerable to anything and anyone who might be lurking.

The way she saw things, she had two options: to run to castle as fast as she could or to disguise herself as someone who might regularly take midnight walks to Hogwarts and reduce her risk of tripping and spraining something. Well, she could hardly stand around all day fretting about it. Hagrid still came and went at odd hours, but that Illusion would be take a lot of energy to maintain, as she looked nothing at all like the gigantic professor and groundskeeper. Still, she could not think of anyone else who would dare venture outside this late.

Despite the deadly seriousness of the situation, she could not help smiling a little as she cast the charm. A feeling like cold, wet egg dripped from her head to her toes, and when she looked down at her hands, she saw huge, hairy hands capable of palming a small child. Her perspective was all skewed when she tried to look at the rest of herself, so she stopped trying and set off toward the school at a brisk pace. Hagrid might have been whistling on his way back home, but she wanted remain aware of her surroundings and as inconspicuous as possible.

It was difficult to know how to walk because her natural proportions were so unlike Hagrid's, but she took long strides and swung her arms and hoped her exaggerated loping gait was convincing. Before long, she left behind the glow of Hosgmeade for the darkness of an undisturbed night. The Forbidden Forest loomed close and ominous, rustling with the movements of nocturnal creatures… and nothing else, she hoped. Her mind was too focused on the Death Eaters outside Lucius's manor to worry too much anyway.

She quickened her pace and soon saw the great bulk of the castle rise before her like something from a horror film. The only reason she had not run the whole way here was that she knew she would have a terrible stitch in her side if she did, and she wanted to be at her very best to repel the Death Eaters. Now that she could see Hogwarts clearly, she allowed herself to break into a run.

She entered the castle unchallenged and fought the urge to slow down and take in the sight of the place that had been her home for years. Nostalgia threatened to overwhelm her, but she kept her eyes fixed on the route to the Headmistess's chamber and did not allow them to wander from the light emanated by her wand. The faint illumination of starlight and moonlight in the Great Hall reminded her of the room in Lucius's home where she had stayed for those few hours.

In the distance she saw what she assumed to be another professor and ducked into the first room she found. She waited for an agonising minute or two, but the footsteps never approached. Would a professor try to hold a conversation with 'Hagrid' at this late hour? There was a charm to disguise her voice as well, but that would be more unnecessary energy expended. She whispered _lumos_ again and went on her way.

The stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the chamber she sought looked positively menacing in the shadows thrown by her wand. Like Dumbledore before her, McGonagall had settled on a particular theme for her passwords, this time the names of Scottish towns. Hermione began rattling off a list and sighed with relief when the gargoyle swung open at Aberdeen. She took a moment to remove the Illusion and dashed up the winding stairs.

"Professor!" she cried. "Professor! It's urgent, please!"

She came to a halt in the large office adorned with portraits of past Headmasters. A few of them awoke at her entrance, but most of those grumbled and went back to sleep. Phineas Nigellus Black said something unpleasant about upstart youth and subsided. But one in particular stayed awake and smiled at her. Her heard lurched to see Dumbledore on the wall, wearing an amused and kind expression she remembered so well.

"Miss Granger," he said, "what a pleasant surprise. Do forgive Phineas; he isn't as acquainted with the pleasures of running pell-mell up guarded staircases in the middle of the night as you and I are."

"Professor," she said between gasping breaths, "It's… Death Eaters. They're attacking… the Malfoy home. He… Lucius Malfoy… do you know…?"

He nodded and gave her a sympathetic smile, but before he could answer, Minerva flew into the room, startling Hermione. Her grey hair frizzed around her head in a corona, and a thick white nightgown made her look one of the castle ghosts.

"Miss Granger?" she asked in a sharp, worried voice. "What's the matter?"

Hermione took a few more breaths to compose herself and then answered in a rush. "It's Mr. Malfoy, Professor. Death Eaters are attacking his home, and he believes they're preparing to do something much worse very soon. He asked me to fetch help, and I don't know how long he can stand against them."

While Hermione spoke, the Headmistress crossed the room and began rummaging through her desk. "Slow down, Miss Granger."

It was only upon hearing this form of address for the third time that night that it occurred to her that while both the Headmistress and the former Headmaster (she assumed) knew of her marriage, both of them continued to address her as they had known her in school. Well, Dumbledore had continued to call Voldemort by his given name long after others had forgotten or willed themselves to forget.

"Now, what is this you're telling me about Death Eaters at the Malfoy residence? And which Malfoy are you talking about?" It was more than a casual question, Hermione knew. McGonagall had kept the secret of Lucius's work as an undercover agent for years now and would no doubt be aggravated to discover that he had broken his cover.

"It's Lucius Malfoy. Please, Professor, I promise I'll explain everything later." Not everything, she silently amended. There was no reason her Headmistress should (or probably wanted) to know that she had been doing anything other than sleeping when the attack had come. "We have to get help now. They were breaking through the wards when I left."

"Very well. Albus, would you kindly alert all members of the Order you can find? Tell them only to meet at 12 Grimmauld Place."

"Of course, Minerva." With that, Dumbledore disappeared from his portrait, and the room felt a little emptier to Hermione.

"Now then, am I to assume to you know the essentials of Mr. Malfoy's whereabouts for the past four years?" The Headmistress was engaged in writing something, but at this, she looked up at Hermione with a piercing gaze.

It was hard not to feel like a student again, standing before the Headmistress's desk. She tried not to shift from foot to foot. "I know some of it, yes."

"Very good. That is one fewer explanation I shall have to give tonight. I am going to ask you to wait here while I put on some decent attire, and then you are going take me to the Malfoy residence. From there we shall make our way to 12 Grimmauld Place." She folded the scrap of parchment she had written on and stood to leave. Before she disappeared to her private chamber, she paused and gave Hermione a searching look.

"I'm sure this is a trying time for you, but you are performing admirably."

With that, she departed, leaving Hermione to blush and stare at her feet. A cough made her start, and she glanced around the room to see Phineas glaring down at her. "I thought you might like to know that I can hear people moving about. Do these friends of yours never sleep? And what's this I hear about Lucius Malfoy? If I'm not mistaken, he's married to Cygnus Black's granddaughter."

He must mean Narcissa, Hermione thought. "Actually, sir, you are mistaken," she said after a moment's consideration. "I mean, they were married, but I believe Narcissa left him a few years ago." What would the old Headmaster say if he learned Lucius had remarried to a Muggleborn?

"And those associates of his have finally turned on him. Hmph. I could have warned him about attaching himself too closely to those fanatics, but I remember Lucius from his time here as a student." He eyed her expectantly, evidently awaiting a response.

What was McGonagall doing that took so long? Hermione wondered. This conversation was becoming more and more strange. "You… saw him? In the Headmaster's office?"

He gave her a vulpine smile, obviously glad to impart a bit of gossip. "Oh yes, child. He was a proud boy, very proud. Sometimes one student or another would complain about him or his Slytherin friends, but no one could ever prove anything against him. He reminded me greatly of a young Tom Riddle in that respect. The headmaster tried to talk sense into him, but he never listened. Young people never do."

That was the longest speech she had ever heard from Phineas, and he seemed to realise it at the same moment she did. With one last mutter about brash children, he lay his head down and began snoring a little too loudly.

Minerva bustled in at that point, wearing unrelieved black and a tense expression. "I apologise to keep you waiting. Are you ready?" Hermione nodded. "Then let us be on our way."

They left the same way Hermione had come, discussing strategy and keeping an eye on their surroundings. This time Hermione did not bother with a disguise, sure that she and the Headmistress could dispatch any trouble they came across between Hogwarts and the boundary of the anti-Apparition magic. Minerva stopped just outside that boundary and laid a hand on Hermione's arm. Feeling very awkward and somehow backward, as if the Headmistress should be the one taking Hermione on a Side-Along Apparition, Hermione spoke the spell and soon found herself back at the garden and the Pegasus hedge.

In the distance but too close for comfort, Hermione heard odd crashing noises and saw flashes of light. But, she reminded herself, the lights and noises came from outside the house, so the Death Eaters had not yet managed to penetrate the wards or the walls.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," Minerva said after a moment. "I believe I can return here. It appears that whatever defences Malfoy has are functioning for the time being. Come, it will be easier if we Apparate to 12 Grimmauld together." This time, Hermione was the one squeezed through the horrible Side-Along compression.

When she felt normal again, she found herself standing on a familiar London street. A long time had passed since Sirius's death, but he was the first thing she always thought of when she came here. The eye wanted to slide past it, such a dismal little place it was, but inside half a dozen people had scrounged up candles, and in the midst of such activity, it looked almost jovial.

As soon as she entered, the attention turned toward her, and she found herself at the centre of a small throng. Before her friends could swarm, Minerva called sharply for a little order. Even Mad-Eye Moody stopped short at that tone, and Ron blushed bright red. Tonk's hair flickered for a moment and then settled on sky blue.

"Much better," she continued. "Now we have an urgent mission and very little time to plan. We are going to the Malfoy residence-"

Incredulous noises drowned out her voice, Harry and Ron the loudest of the lot. Hermione saw McGonagall give Tonks an exasperated look. The younger woman stuck her fingers in her mouth and blew an incredible ear-shattering whistle. Hermione laughed. Ron jumped and looked around frantically, hand on his wand.

"Thank you, Miss Tonks," Minerva said calmly. "May I continue? Good. We are going to the Malfoy residence to repel a Death Eater attack, and I should hope I don't have to remind you that we have reports that they are planning on carrying out some very serious assaults in the near future." Hermione was sure that those reports had come from Lucius and was equally sure that she was the only one besides Minerva who knew it.

"Hermione and I will bring two of you along via Side-Along apparition, and then we'll bring the rest. I don't know how many members will be able to come here tonight, so I will ask one of you to stay here for a short time. I'm sure you will have many questions when I tell you this, but I would be very grateful if we could postpone them until we are all safe again."

She sighed. "As I have said, we are preparing to stop a Death eater raid, but Lucius Malfoy is not to be harmed. We believe he is their target, and before you ask," she said, pointing a finger at Ron and Harry, who looked as if they were about to choke, "yes, I am quite certain that he is not their agent, and no, you will not question me about this right now. We'll discuss our plan of action when we arrive."

Her instructions were carried out more swiftly that Hermione would have guessed. She doubted she had been away more than half an hour, maybe twenty minutes when she found herself back at the Pegasus hedge with her wand drawn. She could still hear the strange crashing noises, but the flashes of hexes and jinxes were faint now. They were closer to the house, perhaps inside the front door. Her hands were damp, and she couldn't hear properly over the pounding of her heart.

She vaguely heard Mad-Eye ordering them to spread out around the front of the manor and then converge slowly and silently on the glow of magical activity. It was not the most complex of battle plans, but their best weapon right now was the element of surprise. Hermione wished she knew what Lucius had written in that letter and tried to tell herself that he would not expose himself or her to any more risk than necessary.

Once, she had done a little research on the Malfoy home out of the same bizarre curiosity that had led her to investigate the vaults. While there was little concrete information available on the house, she did learn that in general, the ancient, opulent wizarding manors were guarded by a protective charm which would not allow any to enter who were not invited by a member of the family.

Of course, as the coterie of Death Eaters had just proved, wards could be broken. Still, breaking through a charm with sheer brute force took a lot of time and energy they could not spare, so Hermione had been sent to the front of the party to invite the rest through the gates. She prayed that Tingy would not choose this moment to welcome her back. As soon as they passed the elaborate gate, each person took up his or her position in an inverted V pattern and then began a slow march toward the front door.

To either side of her, barely visible now, stood Harry and Kingsley. A little ways away, she saw a shadowy figure fire a spell into the garden. Bushes rustled as someone fell, and she hoped that someone was a bad guy. Kingsley turned his head in her direction and nodded. She sighed, turned to Harry, and nodded. It was probably Mad-Eye dispatching a sentry the Death Eaters had left behind for a situation just like this.

Their advantage of surprise over numbers lasted about three more minutes, and really, the numbers weren't so uneven. There were fewer than two Death Eaters per Order member, and it looked like half of them had forced their way inside. Hermione refused to let herself speculate about Lucius's safety and focused on the targets before her. One was a huge, imposing blond man, and another she recognised well. Antonin Dolohov, the frighteningly skilled Death Eater who had nearly killed her years ago, was advancing on her with his teeth bared. This time he would not find her so easy prey.

She began with the classic _expelliarmus_, which he dodged easily and countered with impedimenta, a surprisingly benign spell from this evil man. From her left, Kingsley cast _petrificus_ _totalus_, but his shield charm blocked it. He advanced on her and fired _incendio_ with a sweeping gesture. She brought up a shield of her own but felt the blast of heat scorch her face. Before she could counter, he cast a curse she could not identify at Kingsley, who pivoted in time to miss the brunt of the spell but fell as the burst brushed by his arm.

Harry had left to chase one of the Lestranges with a yell and a wildly misfired _spectumsempra_. She had shuddered when she heard that cry. Dolohov spared a moment to levitate Kingsley's body and fling him into a decorative tree before returning his attention to her. Shouts and flashes of light filled the air now, and a distant part of Hermione hoped that they had managed to draw off the attack on Lucius. She threw a spell she vaguely remembered witnessing at school, _tarantallegra_, at the Death Eater and was gratified to see his legs wobble and dance. She followed immediately with _stupefy_, but again he brought up a shield charm so fast that the spell bounced back at Hermione. It did not touch her, but in avoiding it, she tripped over a loose stone.

Just then, she heard running footsteps approach her position and struggled to her feet. A sharp bolt of pain seared her ankle as she stood, and she stumbled again before she could see who was near her. She cast a hurried _episkey_ at her wounded ankle and rose almost before the spell took effect. It was a lumpy, ugly man leering at her and firing from behind a hedge something at her which left a poisonous green streak in the air. She raised a shield and returned with a stinging hex. Judging by his breathy squeals, her spell had hit its target.

By now Dolohov had recovered and was firing something else at her. It cut through her shield and forced her back to the ground. She managed to send off _incarcerous_ as she fell, and when she stood again, she saw Dolohov unconscious and bound with rope. Her spell had conjured the ropes, but it should not have knocked him out. Her eyes scanned the area and came to rest on Lucius's familiar figure. The starlight shone on his short blond hair and momentarily gave it the appearance of a halo.

From behind her, the lumpy Death Eater shouted something, and she twisted in time to see a blue glow speeding toward her. She barely had time to raise a shield, and the glow vaporised it in a silver explosion. She scrabbled away into a very unfriendly, thorny shrub and turned her head to see a red streak flying toward her attacker. She was sure it was Lucius, and when she had extracted herself from the bush, she tried to find him to acknowledge him with a grateful nod.

But he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Harry stood a little ways away from where she had last seen her husband, wand trained on a dark lump on the ground. Maybe he had found his quarry, then. Hermione thought she knew what he would like to do to a man who had tortured Neville's parents to insanity and hurried toward him to prevent the worst of it. His punishment was for the Ministry to determine, frustrating as it often was, not Harry. She did not want him to carry that stain for the rest of his life.

When she was close enough to see the lump clearly, she gasped and made a little squeaky noise. She fell to her knees and touched the silent figure's face. It was warm, and she thought she could feel a pulse when she pressed her fingers to his neck.

"Harry," she shouted, "what did you do?"

He looked angry and bewildered. "I saved you! He cast a hex at you, I saw him! McGonagall was wrong, I knew it, I-"

Her body shuddered in a sob. "You saw wrong! There was Death Eater behind a tree… he fired something at me, and it cut through my shield. If Lucius hadn't hexed him, he might've killed me." She shook Lucius by his shoulders but got no response. She looked up at Harry through tear-filled eyes. "What did you do!"


	24. Gold and Black and White

A/N: I think Saturday is my new official update day. For all of you who hated the cliff-hanger in the last two chapters, all I can say is… don't hate me too much after this one! This is the longest chapter yet, so prepare yourselves accordingly (grin).

((edited for discrepancies))

Chapter 24:

"I saw him," Harry repeated stubbornly. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Hermione. "He could have killed you! We never should have come here; we should have let his old friends take care of him."

There was slick of anger on the surface of her roiling emotions, but mostly she was scared. Lucius's pulse thrummed steadily under her fingers and his chest rose and fell, but otherwise, he lay as still and silent as a stone. Hermione struggled to pull him into a seated position, but he was so heavy, a dead weight. _Not dead_. She gripped her wand and cast a quiet _Ennervate_, which caused his breath and heart to quicken. Her own breath caught, but nothing came of it. His eyelids didn't even flutter.

"We have to get him to St. Mungo's," she said without bothering to respond to Harry's accusations.

Harry was staring incredulously at Lucius, but now he gaped at her. "You can't be serious. Didn't you hear me? I-"

Without warning, Hermione brandished her wand and pointed it at her friend. "Silencio!" she cried. Harry's mouth worked furiously, but no sound came out. He looked as she surprised as she felt at her audacity.

"Listen to me. There was a _Death Eater_ which you can't see from here trying to kill me. There were two, actually, and if Lucius had not stopped one of them, _they_ might've been the ones to kill me. Now Lucius is hurt, and we have to get help for him. Whatever else he's done, Harry – and I know that much of it is evil – he has saved my life, not just now but several times." She paused and sighed. "Look at it this way; if he's alive, he can go to trial for his crimes. Now, are you going to be reasonable?"

He glared at her but finally nodded. "Good," she said. "Finite incantatem."

"Fine, we'll get someone to take him to St. Mungo's." Harry stood on his toes and surveyed the wrecked garden. "Here, Remus is heading this way."

Hermione wanted to argue that she should take Lucius to St. Mungo's, but Remus was standing over her and talking before she had the chance. He spoke in great heaving gasps, in such evident hurry, unlike his customary serenity.

"You have to go," he panted. "Moody was able… was questioning… Alecto Carrow… a Death Eater… she died soon afterwards, possibly… possibly self-inflicted…" He stopped to catch his breath and only then appeared to notice Lucius unconscious in Hermione's arms. With a curious expression, he looked from Harry to Hermione.

"He's fine," Harry said sullenly and a little sheepishly. "Just Stunned. _Ennervate _should have worked."

"Ah. I'll look after him, make sure someone tends to him, but you two have to go. I told Ron to find Moody and wait for you. He found something you'll want to hear."

Hermione brushed Lucius's soft hair from his forehead and gazed at the figure he presented in repose. He somehow managed to retain some of his arrogance when he was Stunned, as if he had decided to lay down here and take a short nap on his own volition, thank you very much. He should look surprised, she thought idly.

"I won't leave him until I know he's safe," she replied. She wouldn't be ripped away from him again, not knowing whether he was alive or not, wondering for years and almost giving up on seeing him. No more.

"Didn't you hear him," Harry began incredulously, but Remus cut him off with a gesture.

He knelt beside Hermione and lay a hand on her shoulder. "I know what you're afraid of," he whispered. "I'll keep an eye on him until you return. No one's going to spirit him away."

She tore her eyes from Lucius's face to look up at her friend. He had always been so kind to her, quietly supportive and proud of her. It was an awkward position, but she turned anyway and threw her arms around Lupin's neck.

"Thank you," she answered in that same whisper. She sniffled and blinked her eyes rapidly as she lowered Lucius gently back to the ground. Remus took her place at his side and began murmuring something while waving his wand slowly over the unconscious figure.

"I'm ready," she said and strode over to where she had last seen Mad-Eye, without waiting for Harry's response. A few moments later, she saw Ron hurrying toward them. When he saw them, his worried expression broke into a grin and he started running.

"Hermione!" he cried happily and caught her in a tight embrace. She was a little surprised by his demonstrative affection, but it was a pleasant sort of surprise. Normally, Ron was one to shuffle and stare at his shoes and mutter something about being glad they were still alive. And blush, of course.

"Oof, it's good to see you too," she said, voice muffled by his shoulder. "I can't breathe."

He released her quickly, and sure enough, a scarlet flush was creeping into his cheeks. He turned to Harry and they danced around for a moment, trying to decide what male display of affection was appropriate for the occasion, gave up, and embraced.

"'s good to see you, mate."

"Good to see you too."

When they broke apart, _both_ of them were staring at their shoes. Hermione sighed, but a smile twitched at her lips. Boys. "What did Moody say? Where is he?"

Ron turned around to peer into the darkness and then shrugged. "I dunno. McGonagall whispered something to him, and he said he had to go. He told me to tell you that Alecto said… she's a Death Eater, or she was. Ugly, too. It was weird… one minute Moody was dragging a confession out of her, and the next she just… slumped over.

"But before that, she said that You… that _Voldemort_," he said the name with obvious pride, "was finally coming out of hiding. He's waiting for… well, for you, Harry. He's waiting at the beginning."

Harry did not looked at all shocked by this intelligence. He just looked determined, like he always did, and maybe a little grim. "He's waiting for me, did you say? Then I'll have to go meet him." He glanced from Ron to Hermione and back. "I have to go alone. I think I have to."

Hermione shook her head. "You are _not_ going alone, Harry. Strictly speaking, you should not go at all… this way, he gets to choose the terrain and booby trap the place. But if you're going to be stubborn, we're coming with you. Right, Ron?"

To his credit, Ron did not hesitate a moment before replying with a vigorous nod. "She's right, Harry. It's always been the three of us, hey? The prophecy only _mentions_ you, but it doesn't say we can't tag along."

"We're not taking no for answer," Hermione said and, though she was still mad at Harry for attacking Lucius, she linked her arm through his and began dragging him back toward the castle. "Now, we're going to get some supplies before we leave, and that's that."

Harry did not bother to argue further, though she could see him gather his courage every so often to try. Ron kept him mostly distracted by recounting his role in the recent attack blow-by-blow, dramatic enough in the telling to rival professional Quidditch commentators.

When they reached the door, Tingy appeared around a corner to joyously greet Hermione with many effusive cries of "Mistress!" which evidently made Ron and Harry uncomfortable.

"Right," Harry said in the midst of the house-elf's verbal profusion, "what do we need here?"

Hermione had already thought of this. "Harry, do you know what he meant by 'the beginning'?"

He nodded. "I think so. I saw it in a memory, the orphanage where he grew up. I used to think he had hidden one of his Horcruxes there, but there's only one left, and that one travels with him." He meant Nagini, of course, Voldemort's pet. "He hid something everywhere that was important in his life, and the orphanage is the only place left where I haven't… come across him in some form."

The serpent. Harry's mention of what they all believed to be the final Horcrux, Voldemort's final stake in immortality, made up Hermione's mind. She had had time, a long time, to speculate on this final confrontation and had chosen the role she would play. Not only had she chosen that role, but she had… if not accepted the consequences, at least come to term with them. She would have liked right now to run back outside, to whisper a few words into Lucius's ear, but doing so would only arouse suspicion. If Ron or Harry got a whiff of her plans, they would forbid her from going through with it, and that could be fatal. They would need all of their energy and concentration to defeat Voldemort, not to worry about her or Nagini.

Hermione asked the house elf to lead them to wherever the most powerful potions were. She led the trio down stone staircases, down and down. The stairs became narrow and worn, and soon all three humans were peering through the gloom with the aid of light from their wands. Finally they came to a halt in a great vault which branched off into several shadowy niches. Before them loomed a tall door carved in stone and banded with dark metal. Beside her, Harry stiffened and Ron shivered. They had seen enough malignant old dungeons in their time to know what one looked and felt like.

"Does Mistress require anything else?" Tingy inquired.

Hermione opened her mouth to dismiss the elf but changed her mind. "Could you wait here for a bit?" She stepped forward tentatively and touched the door. It fizzed when she did so but did not seem… unfriendly. Another ward? "How do I get inside?"

"Mistress must turn the doorknob," Tingy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Come to think of it, it was fairly obvious.

She reached for the ordinary-looking knob and heard Ron and Harry draw deep breaths behind her. Slowly, she touched the knob and then wrapped her hand around it. It turned obligingly, but when she tried to push it, the door would not yield. She turned her attention back to Tingy.

"What's wrong? Why can't I open it?"

Tingy fidgeted and plucked at her dishrag. "Mistress… must be a pureblood. A Malfoy can turn the knob, but only a pureblood can open it."

"Great," she muttered. "Leave it to the Malfoys to make things so difficult." She chewed her lip for a moment, considering the door, and then grinned. Maybe this would not be so difficult after all.

"Ron," she said, "you're a pureblood. Come here."

The red-headed boy… young man approached slowly, eyeing the door as if it might come alive and bite him at any moment. "You've got to be kidding, Hermione. I don't think the great big Malfoy door would open for _me._ Malfoys _hate_ Weasleys, and the feeling's mutual."

She rolled her eyes. "I doubt Verdan and Melusine Malfoy decided to make an exception in the ward for ginger 'blood traitors'. It can't hurt to try." She paused and looked at Tingy. "Can it?"

Tingy shook her head. "Mistress has led her friends safely past the most dangerous spells."

"Thank you," she replied. She laid her hand on the knob again and turned and then motioned for Ron to push the door. He did so and winced a little when the door swung slowly under his hand, obviously expecting something unpleasant to come flying out at him from the darkness.

Hermione brightened the light radiating from her wand and stared at the room. Shelves upon shelves lined a cylindrical room that must have reached to the very top of the castle.

"Blimey," Ron breathed. "What do you suppose Snape would give to see this place?"

"Malfoy and Snape are old friends," Harry said sourly. "I bet this is his favourite place to spend his holidays."

Hermione shushed them and asked Tingy if there were a English catalogue of the room's contents. Tingy replied that there was and disappeared to fetch it. Hermione began examining the vials and bottles at eye-level, mostly labelled in archaic English, French, or a language she did not understand but assumed to be Breton. It looked like a kind of Gaelic, at any rate. Tingy returned with a _pop_ and a great sheaf of parchment too big for Hermione to hold and still retain her wand. She sat on the floor, surprisingly free of dust, and began leafing through it.

She recognised a good deal of what she saw and wished she had more time to investigate the contents of this room. Some of these were supposed to be nearly impossible to make or gather, and she thought she saw at least one concoction that was only rumoured to exist outside dark arts books. But she did not even have time to read leisurely through the catalogue and instead magically flipped through the pages until she found was she was looking for.

"I've got it," she announced. "Why don't you two ask Tingy to take you to the kitchen while I gather what I need? It won't take long, and you won't have to stand around here doing nothing."

Harry looked at her suspiciously, and she hoped he was not going to ask why she was sending them away. She buried her head in the parchment and began thumbing through it at random, praying he would take the hint and leave her alone. Finally, he relented and did as Hermione asked. Ron complained about walking all that way again when Voldemort was _out there_ and _waiting_ for them. Their voices trailed off, leaving Hermione to wonder if there were limits to Apparating from room to room. In any case, though, none of them knew what the kitchen looked like, and as for Voldemort… well, he had hidden himself for over a year now and could afford to wait on them for a change.

When she was sure they could not hear her and would not run back down the stairs in a sudden change of heart, she stood and Summoned two vials of liquid, two empty vials, and two corks. The pearly white potion she divided into three parts. Phoenix tears worked most effectively when fresh, but she hoped that they would be strong enough for her and for whatever injuries Harry and Ron might incur. Strong enough to heal them or at least to keep them alive until… well, she worry about that later.

She poured most the liquid into the two empty vials, saving only a little for herself. She had no illusions about martyring herself; she simply knew what she had to face and could not begin to imagine what Voldemort might throw at Harry and Ron. An intelligent, magical cobra containing a little piece of a dark lord's soul was one thing… the Dark Lord himself was something very different. For example, she knew how she was going to kill the serpent. She peered into the other vial, in which sloshed a viscous black fluid. Unlike phoenix tears, basilisk venom was supposed to grow more potent as it aged, like good liquor. Inspiration struck, and she Summoned another vial, this one gleaming gold in the dim light.

She secreted the vials around her person, closed the door behind her, and called Tingy. Still pondering the question of Apparition and growing more impatient to meet Voldemort now that she was armed, she asked if the elf could bring her directly to her friends. Tingy could, of course, it was just that no one had asked her. Hermione repressed a sigh and held the little creature's hand for a Side Along Apparition.

She found herself in a room so bright after the dark dungeon that her eyes watered for a good minute before they adjusted. Harry and Ron were shovelling food in their mouths as if the world supply was set to run out any minute. Well, after the rigours of battling Death Eaters, they needed all the energy they could get. They also needed all the luck they could get, which was why she had Summoned that third vial at the last minute. She pulled it from an inner pocket in her robes with a flourish.

"Before you two make yourselves sick," she said, "let's finish this off." She shrugged. "It couldn't hurt."

"Hermione," Ron cried, "you're brilliant!"

As she cut a thick slice of bread and topped it with a creamy white cheese, Ron and Harry each took a mouthful of the potion. Ron passed it to her, and she finished it off. When she swallowed and looked around, she saw that the other two were wearing manic grins. They looked very silly, she thought until she realised that she was doing the same thing. Her plan for destroying Voldemort's final Horcrux was simple, true, but as Ron had just said, she was brilliant. Fantastic. She would be able to keep Nagini away from Harry and Ron long enough for them to… to… Her confidence stumbled here a bit, but she was certain they had thought as much about this as she had and doubtless had a cunning plan of their own. At least, Harry was sure to have imagined this moment over and over again. And they were feeling lucky.

"I also have these for you," she announced as she withdrew two vials of phoenix tears from her robes. "Don't use them unless it's absolutely necessary… they're phoenix tears, but they aren't fresh." She smiled. "But I'm sure you'll do fine. Well, shall we be off?" Part of her knew that she should be quite a bit more sombre in this moment, facing what might be her doom and the doom of her friends and perhaps the entire wizarding world, but another part of her asserted stubbornly that all that doom and gloom would not do her or any of them any good whatsoever.

They ambled out the front door after Tingy and breathed in the cool night air. The gardens were empty of people again, though uneven hedges and trampled bushes showed that all had not been so peaceful here recently. Hermione saw the spot where Lucius had lain and felt some of her exhilaration ebb. It would have been nice to see him again, to talk to him once more before she left.

"When I went there," Harry was saying, "we rode on brooms. Hermione, do you think you can follow us?"

Normally, she would have paled at this request, but the _felix felicis_ overrode her objections. "Sure. Just don't try anything fancy."

They each Summoned a broom, and Hermione realised with no little amusement that they were borrowing Draco's old Quidditch brooms. Hers was a Firebolt from several years ago, outdated as these things went but still faster than anything she had ever ridden. It jumped obediently into her hand, and she was pleasantly surprised to note how smoothly it carried her when she pushed off the ground. This was going to be _fun_, she told herself

firmly.

Not even a mouthful of _felix_ could make her really comfortable on a broom, but she managed to stay on and almost enjoy herself, flitting through the wisps of cloud. Her eyes remained fixed on Harry's broom in front of her, forbidden from wandering to see just how tiny the houses below were. She lost track of the time as they soared and her fingers grew chilly clamped around the graceful wood handle.

Finally they landed, Hermione with a solid _bump_. She had been so concentrated on keeping her eyes fastened on Harry that she had not noticed until the began their slow spiral down that they were in London. This was not good, she thought through the confident glow of the potion. For some reason, she had pictured an orphanage in the middle of nowhere, where they could battle Voldemort in peace. But it was to be expected that Voldemort would manage to place as many people as possible in danger if he was to be so, especially if they were Muggles. Idly, she rearranged the vials and her wand so the phoenix tears and her wand rested in her right pocket and the venom in her left.

It was disconcerting to hear the usual car honks and sirens of a London night in this deserted place. They passed through a rusted iron gate, its hinges creaking a protest after laying unused for so long, probably for decades. Once inside the gate, they set down their brooms by silent accord and took one another's hands, Hermione between the two boys. There was nothing to be said just now. Nothing existed for them but the orphanage before them and the pressure of warm hands.

The sere courtyard seemed to stretch out before them, farther and farther until the square building ahead of them was reduced to a speck on the horizon. "It's a trick," Harry muttered as silence descended on them.

"A cheap parlour trick," Hermione agreed. They took one step, then another into the desert. They did not appear to come any closer to the building which was their destination, but they did not falter. What else could they do but continue? Ron and Harry each had their wands out in their free hands, but Hermione was sure that they would not need them just yet. After all, Voldemort had Nagini and needed no other guard.

Finally their feet bumped into something, and the illusion melted around them. They had reached the steps that led to the front door. As soon as their feet touched the top of the bottom step, Hermione heard a low hiss coming from around the side of the building. Their hands broke apart, and each trained a wand toward the direction of the noise. Now Hermione knew what she needed to do.

"You two go on ahead," she said in the most casual tone she could muster. "I'll deal with Voldemort's worm."

"Hermione, we have to stay together," Ron declared.

"You were the one who said I couldn't go alone," Harry added. "We do this together or we don't do it at all."

She sighed and adopted what she knew to be her most annoying, patronising tone of voice. "It's always been like this. Don't argue, you know I'm right. We go together, but we're individual people, and we have different strengths. I know what I'm doing. I've been planning this for a long time. You two are going to have enough trouble with Voldemort as is… this way you'll be at your maximum strength, and you won't have to worry about a snake bothering you." It felt _right_ what she was saying. If she did not already know it, the _felix_ told her she was doing the right thing.

Ron and Harry exchanged a long, expressive glance, and she knew that they were feeling the same thing she did. "All right," Ron said. "I guess you know what you're doing." He hesitated and then reached out to hug her again.

Then Harry hugged her and asked in a whisper if she forgave him. It was too soon for that, but she couldn't tell him that, not now. She knew it, and the _felix_ confirmed it. She lied and told him that of course she did. There would be time for forgiveness later. The three of them stared at each other.

"I love you, Hermione," Harry said suddenly. "I mean, not… well, you know," he finished lamely.

"Love you too, Hermione," Ron echoed. He shuffled and stared at his shoes.

She smiled at the pair of them. "I love you too, both of you. Now go."

They mounted the stairs, and Hermione left around the corner, hands stuck in her pockets and gripping the contents. She heard them open the door and walk inside. And then her attention was caught by the giant snake rearing up before her, and she could think of nothing else. Its hood was raised, and it undulated softly as it rose, to her height and then taller, towering over her. She brought her hands out of her pockets and trained her wand on the creature.

It hissed at her and spoke in her mind. _Greetings, Mudblood. I do not see your little friends with you… have you decided to divide and conquer? Very amusing. And very good of you, to sacrifice your life so that the other two might have a few extra moments of life. _

The giant serpent was not a basilisk, to kill her with its mere gaze, but she knew better than to look into its eyes. Instead, she focused on its hood just to the side of its great head. "You're wrong," she said aloud. "I'm not going to die here. Neither will Ron or Harry." A slow grin spread across her face. "But I'm afraid I can't say the same for you or your master."

The creature hissed angrily. _Insolent girl! You would mock the Dark Lord and his greatest servant? Know who I am! I am my Master's soul! He sees through my eyes and kills with my fangs. He will kill you, girl, and then He will kill your friends._

She felt the snake's malevolence probe into her mind and threw up a hastily mental shield. She had not gone through the extensive Auror training that Ron and Harry had undergone, but she had taken it upon herself to learn some of the advanced magical combat techniques. And she had excelled in Occlumency, though Legilimency remained out of her grasp. Nagini was no ordinary Legilimens, though, and she just barely managed to hold onto her block. Unfortunately, that meant she could not fire any spells at the snake while she concentrated on her secrets.

It would not do for the creature, and through it Voldemort, to realise that she was very happy to hear what it had just said. So it _was_ the final Horcrux. That meant that when she killed it, Voldemort would be mortal. Insane and powerful and knowledgeable beyond any living wizard… but mortal. She was so intent on guarding her sudden elation from the creature that it was able to penetrate other areas of her mind, though. She did not even realise that it had intruded until it spoke, and then it was too late.

_So, my Master's suspicions proved correct. Lucius Malfoy betrayed his name, his family, his blood, and his life for a nobody, a filthy nothing with mud running through her veins. Rest assured, he will pay for his betrayal. He will beg for death, but my Master will keep him alive as an example to those who would commit his disgusting treason. My master only regrets that He will not be able to kill you before his eyes. _

Her shock at the snake's words were so great that she forgot not to look in her eyes. It did not kill her, but it might as well have. Something like a fist closed over her mind, slammed its control over her like a cage slamming shut. So the _felix_ had run out, then. Well, it has lasted her a good ways. Her last coherent thought was to clear her mind except for the things in her hand. Left, then right. Left, then right. That was all she had to remember.

_You disappoint me. You were supposed to be so very clever, clever enough to make Malfoy forget about the mud in your veins. But here you are, trapped like a tasty little mouse. Now we end this farce, and I shall share the remains of your friends with my Master. Drop the wand._

"No," she muttered, her speech slurred. "Won't." She had also trained to resist the Imperius curse, and this was a little like it.

_You're right. Break it._

"No."

_BREAK IT_

The fist squeezed until her vision went red, and she tasted blood. "_Confringo_," she slurred and felt the wand and vial shatter. She opened her hand and gazed blankly at the bits of wood and glass. When she wiped her hand on her robe, she felt glass cut her hand and blood seep out. There was another sensation, but she could not think about that.

_Now, come here._

Left, then right. But the right was destroyed. She clenched her left hand as hard as she could.

_What's this? Another trick? You should not be able to retain any control at all right now… very intriguing. You're more skilled than you seem. Perhaps you would have made a respectable Death Eater after all, but we shall never know. Now, DROP IT. _

Again, she refused, and again, the snake countered by shouting in her brain. This time she was able to resist a little longer… but only a little longer. When she dropped the vial, she threw it down and sobbed. There was a little tinkle of glass as it shattered on the bare rock. Then there was nothing left… she would die here and now, and she would die in vain.

_Come_.

And although she knew it was hopeless, she stood her ground. She was not going to walk willingly to her death. Nagini could come get her if it wanted her so badly. Hermione was no one's fast food.

"Won't."

_COME!_

"Can't make me. Not… puppet." Her head was being crushed in that iron fist, crushed to a mushy red pulp, crushed, and she was dead. "Dead," she mumbled. "Ow."

_YOU WILL COME TO ME! YOU WILL ACKNOWLEDGE ME BEFORE YOU DIE!_

"Won't." Her left foot rose slowly, and she dropped her head to glare at it. "No." It hung in mid-air. She tried to place it back beside her right foot, but Nagini was trying to draw it forward. For a second, they had equal control, and then Hermione fell. The glass on the ground cut her knee, and she smiled when she felt wetness on her skin. Now something else was creeping through her veins, not mud but something black and insidious.

She stood again but could not support her weight for long. She allowed the force of Nagini's dark will to drag her the few feet to where the cobra waited impatiently. Already half dead with exhaustion and the blackness that ran through her veins, she stared into those black, unknowable eyes and waited. Great sinuous coils wrapped around her ankles, her legs, her thighs.

_Acknowledge me! My master is the greatest wizard ever to have lived, and even as you die, he will taste and know! _

"Won't," she mumbled. "Dub…dore." Her head slumped forward, and Nagini hissed again, enraged. She could say no more. Fangs like daggers pierced her skin, and then Nagini tasted. And knew. And died there beside Hermione, who used the last of her strength to clutch the damp spot on the right side of her robes.


	25. Life, in Three Parts

Chapter Twenty-five:

Upon waking, Hermione noticed that she was lying in an unfamiliar bed and that she was feeling quite weak and sore. Though she had not yet formulated any concrete thoughts, she knew that she should feel rested, not exhausted like this. As she struggled toward wakefulness, her memories of the recent past began to surface, and she realised that she was lucky to be alive at all. She remembered hearing Nagini around the corner of the orphanage, remembered saying farewells to Ron and Harry, and remembered leaving them to confront the gigantic creature… and it was muddy after that. All she knew for certain right now was that she ached, not with any localised pain but a general feeling of excessive wear and tear.

Her eyes fluttered open and then widened in surprise. Near her sat a man, lounging gracefully and reading a book. He was pale and blond and… She blinked and recognised the figure, slimmer and younger than the one she had first thought he was. At the sound of her small movements, he turned his head to regard her with a bored expression. He returned his attention to his book long enough to mark his place and set it aside before rising and coming to stand next to her.

"Finally," he said in what was almost a hostile tone, "someone's showing a little life around here."

She smiled, recalling that tone well from their days at school, but even that small effort taxed her. "It's good to see you too, Draco." During the course of her irregular visits to his little cottage in Finland, she had slowly become accustomed to addressing him by his first name, and in any case, it would have been awkward to go on calling him 'Malfoy'. She was _married_ to a Malfoy. For his part, Draco seemed to go to great lengths to avoid calling her anything at all.

Draco had been sitting in a central spot in the room, but other sections were partitioned off by long, white curtains. A slew of questions rose to her lips, beginning with who else, if anyone, was in the room. And what was Draco doing here, here being (she presumed) St. Mungo's? Most importantly, what had happened to Lord Voldemort?

He grunted and dropped his eyes. "At least you're looking a little more alive. When I first saw you, you looked half dead."

She tried to sit up, but her dully aching muscles screamed in protest. "Ow."

Underneath his detached expression, Hermione saw a flicker of interest, perhaps even concern when he met her eyes again. "What did you _do_? The Healers were in a panic when you were brought in. I could hear them running in and out and shouting to each other all the way down the hall."

As to that, she was not exactly sure. She knew that she had tried to kill Nagini, and judging by her presence here, she assumed that she had won. She tried once more to cast her mind back to her most recent memories, but all she could remember was seeing that great beast approach her. It had _spoken_ to her. She thought back a little further and then remembered venturing into the Malfoy stock of potions. Gradually, her plan came back to her, though she still could not recall carrying it out. She hoped that would return in time; she thought ruefully that it was probably a very exciting story.

"I destroyed the final Horcrux," she said after some thought. "Ron and Harry… we got separated. Are they…" She swallowed and stiffened her courage. "Are they all right?"

Draco nodded at the curtains. "They're over there. They're not dead, and the Healers calmed down after the first few hours." He shrugged. "They look like they're sleeping, but you're the first person to move since they found you. I don't know who… I was with my father when you three were brought here."

His casual tone was too forced at that last to be convincing, and his flickered too quickly to hers. Since he was here with her, for what reason she could not fathom, and since he was his usual laconic self, she assumed that Lucius was… was not in any mortal danger, at least. She remembered that Harry had claimed only to have Stunned him (only!), but that the Ennervate spell had not worked to awaken him.

It occurred to her at that moment that she had been poisoned and so was probably in the appropriate ward… although come to think of it, she might have been bitten, too. Had Harry and Ron and Lucius also suffered potions or magical creature misfortunes or were they gathered together for a different reason? Add it to the ever-growing list of questions, she thought wryly.

"He's… is he… how is he?" Her mouth was suddenly dry.

Draco eyed her searchingly for a moment and then shrugged. He looked unhappy and like he was trying to appear nonchalant. "He's fine. He's talking to someone about leaving… he would have left earlier, you know, if not for you."

She blinked and wondered if he meant what she thought he meant. Unsure of how to phrase a response to that, she contented herself with a noncommittal, "Oh."

"I just thought I'd… I had nothing else to do while he spoke with the Healers and… ," he trailed off for a moment and continued shortly. "He'd like to know if you woke up before we left." He paused. "I should go tell someone that you're awake." Before he turned to leave, he looked at her for a silent moment, and then reached out and briefly squeezed her hand, lying atop the duvet. She stared at him, but he turned away before she could make out his expression.

Curiouser and curiouser.

"No need to hurry," a voice said from just beyond the door, and Hermione's heart tried to leap into her throat. Draco stopped in his tracks, and a moment later, Lucius appeared in the doorway. He was beautiful. Hermione felt her eyes welling with tears and felt ridiculous. She should be worrying about a hundred other things right now, but all she could think about was the touch of those hands and her relief that they were both alive and now in the same room.

She couldn't help comparing father and son in that moment, men with similar build and colouring who even carried themselves similarly. Draco had filled out a little since she had first seen him in Finland years ago, thanks to a very sweet young lady who had taken a keen interest in the young man's welfare. Somehow he even had a bit of colour in his fair cheeks, something which seemed very odd after spending so much time in a Scandinavian country. It must be love, she had thought the first time she noticed. What he was going to do about… Mikaela, she thought her name was… if Voldemort really was gone?

Lucius was leaner than his son, and harder. Whether because of his recent injury or the toll life had taken on him, he was pale except for smudges under his eyes. Even his hair looked a bit tired, a bit limp, and yet she preferred his appearance to his son's youthful glow. He still held himself with absolute assurance, whereas Draco strutted like a bantam rooster. Lucius wore his navy blue robes embroidered with thread-of-silver with an aristocratic elegance Draco simply could not pull off.

'Aristocratic elegance'? She was waxing silly and poetic in her injury. All this went through her mind while Lucius and Draco spoke quietly, too quietly for her to hear. Draco gestured to her, nodded, and left. As Lucius came toward her, she saw that he held something that had been blocked for her sight until now. He smiled at her, and she felt a thrill of warmth rush through her. Her lips curved into an answering smile of their own accord.

"Basilisk venom?" he asked with a touch of laughter in his voice. "My lady, whatever possessed you to poison yourself?" She saw now that he held a pale blue vase with several sprigs of what looked like lilac. A light floral scent drifted toward her, and she felt a very soft tingle beginning in her lungs and spreading through her body with every breath. She wiggled her toes and was pleasantly surprised to note that the effort did not tire her.

"It was all I think of," she said simply.

He set the vase on a table near her bed and came to stand near her. When he spoke again, his voice was a little too light. "Am I to understand that you sacked my potion stock to carry out your mad scheme?"

She grinned. "Legally speaking, _our_ potion stock… and yes, I did. Harry and Ron may very well owe us their lives if they used the phoenix tears." He rolled his eyes. She lifted her hand and gestured at the bed. "You… you can sit, if you like."

He did so and took her hand to kiss it. Hermione blinked furiously, only to see him looking a little misty-eyed himself. She thought she was hallucinating.

"I'm sorry to say it," he said, "but I, and my son, and countless others are indebted to the three of you here."

"Then it worked?"

He nodded. "It did. When you leave here, you will be the toast of the wizarding world."

She wondered what he must be thinking now that Voldemort was dead. He did not seem anxious to say more on that subject, and she couldn't blame him. Now that he was back in the world, or so it seemed, what would become of him, widely known to be one of Voldemort's closest associates?

A silence fell between them, and Hermione shivered. She was suddenly afraid and did not know why. "And you?"

Lucius leaned forward and brushed a strand of tangled her behind her ear. "The powers that be have determined that I have not yet paid my debt to society in full." She could feel the heat from his body at this proximity. "They have allowed me a few hours to tend to some affairs, and then I will leave for Azkaban."

She inhaled sharply and grasped his hand. He did not resist her grip. The Dementors did not guard the prisoners any longer, but she had visited the wizarding prison a few times for psychological research, and it remained a grey, cheerless place. Tears pooled in her eyes again, and this time she did not try to stop them. "Haven't you worked for the Ministry long enough? What more do they want from you?"

A faint smile crossed his lips. "My dear, I believe you are forgetting the severity of the charges levelled against me." But the smile did not reach his eyes and soon faded altogether. "There will be no trial, and they have decided that my time in Ministry employment will count as time served toward my sentence, which they have commuted in light of my service."

A Healer appeared at the door, flanked by a uniformed Auror. "Mr. Malfoy," the former said softly, "you should be on your way." The Auror at his side said nothing but glared as if she would have liked to add something much stronger.

He brushed his lips across hers and stood, gently loosening her grip on his hand. His eyes were bright. He looked as though he wanted to say something but just smiled at her again. And then, "Thank you."

"How long!" she cried, but he did not answer. The Auror strode forward to take his arm, but he stepped through the door of his own accord. The other two trailed after him, looking like nothing else so much as two mismatched bodyguards for their prince.

As the only two other people in the room were unconscious, Hermione felt it was safe to break down weeping the moment she thought no one could hear her.

Life as she saw it at that moment was a lilac-scented prison, haunted by the ghosts of her silent friends and deserted by a man she'd found and then lost for four years… and then found, only to lose again to an infinity stretching out before her like desert with shimmering, insubstantial horizons.

Her time at St. Mungo's passed in infuriating fits and starts. When a Healer came by sooner after Lucius's departure, she had graciously not commented on Hermione's red-streaked face. She could not wait for the woman to be gone, so impatient was she to regain silence where she could examine her painful thoughts in peace. But when the Healer left, time seemed to stretch endlessly before her, and what good could come of going round and round in circles in her head anyway? Thinking was not going to get Lucius out of prison.

What was more, it was a little eerie in that room. Sometimes she could hear a hitch in Ron's or Harry's breathing, but for over a day, nothing came of it. A Healer brought her a few worn medical tomes, better than nothing, but her mind's eye kept whisking away the page in front of her and presenting her with the image of Lucius staring down at her and whispering his gratitude. For what? Why hadn't he answered her question? His words about a commuted sentence and time served did little to reassure her; the sentence had originally been life in prison. It could have been commuted to twenty years, with four off for time served.

When she felt the tears welling up again, she carefully set the book aside. Sixteen years. She could not imagine what her life would be like in sixteen years, what she or Lucius would have grown into by that time. He had not asked her to wait, and she knew that he would not wish her to do so. He had a decidedly skewed perspective on things sometimes, but in this way he was much like every honourable man she had ever know. She hated him for it, and she thought she might have loved him for it, too. Did he… _could_ he feel the same way? It was impossible to say.

Ron was the next to awaken and rambled to himself for a good five minutes before Hermione could suppress her laughter no more and announced her presence. She was barely strong enough to push herself out of bed and hobble her way over to her friend's bedside. She made up her mind to leave it up to him to discuss the details of his and Harry's final battle with Voldemort, but he did not show the slightest inclination to talk about it.

Instead, he asked if there had been any visitors, to which Hermione replied in the affirmative. Mrs. Weasley had stopped by with Tonks and Remus the same day Hermione had regained consciousness, and for a little while Hermione was able to set aside her depressing musings. She was not sure if she should mention Draco and Lucius and ultimately decided against it. This was not the time, she thought. Later, perhaps, when everyone's comfortably reassured that we really are alive and well and safe.

Harry did not wake until the next day, and when he did, Hermione discovered why the three of them had been assigned the same floor, along with Lucius Malfoy. All of the survivors of that battle with the Death Eaters had been placed here for their privacy and protection, and to the loud disgust of the Healer who came to check up on the three of them that day, the Ministry had insisted upon posting guards at all the entrances to this floor.

He was no more keen to talk about what had happened with Voldemort than Ron was, so Hermione resigned herself to speculation, at least until someone else wrung it out of him. They talked about a lot of things – Auror training, new Order members, people they knew, and people they remembered – and the conversation remained peaceful until Harry noticed the flowers at Hermione's side and asked who had brought them. She had no reason to lie about it, and Harry _had_ sounded sincere when he asked her forgiveness before they had parted ways…

So she told him. He replied with a kind of grunt, and an awkward silence fell between the three of them. It was better than shouting, she supposed, but it didn't look like she would ever be able to confide in either one of them her concerns for Lucius's future. Twenty years, she thought despairingly. Who _could_ she confide in? But one of them broke the silence, and after a little while, they had more visitors, and the shadow disappeared from the room.

The Healers wanted them to stay longer, but Harry was determined to leave as soon as he was physically able to leave his bed, and he took his friends with him. Hermione was delighted to leave that hospital room and return to her own house, though the idea of popping by the Malfoy castle did breeze through her mind. She wondered if Draco was staying there, or if he would return to Finland. It was so strange to think that everything had changed overnight and stranger still when she left the hospital and ventured into the real world. She had spent the past few days stuck between four walls, and while the Healers were cheery, and Mrs. Weasley cried a little every time she saw them, nothing had really _felt_ different.

When she left the hospital, though, she found herself stepping into the spotlight, and she absolutely hated it. It had been bad enough, those couple of weeks when her marriage to Lucius had made front page news, but this was a hundred times worse. She was a _hero_. Harry and Ron were heroes. Lucius was barely mentioned, but even then there was a kind of grudging admiration for the man who had been wounded fighting with the Order at the final skirmish with the Death Eaters. There was nothing at all about his prison sentence.

She should have been happier, she knew, and she could not complain of _un_happiness. One night soon after her release, she had been walking through wizarding London after visiting some friends, and it had hit her that for once, she was not looking in the dark shadows for Death Eaters. It was such a wonderful, liberating feeling that she had laughed aloud and bounced a little on her toes. With the fall of their lord and master, enough of the Death Eaters the Ministry had managed to round up were more than happy to divulge the locations of their associates and generally ingratiate themselves as much as possible.

She found herself visiting Draco again, who had gone back to Finland but only long enough to tie up some loose ends before returning to Britain. He laughed at her when she complained about her worse-than-ever fame and suggested with one raised eyebrow that she was more than welcome to his house here if she liked. She swatted him the way she might have swatted Ron for teasing her, and his eyes had popped in surprise. She quickly drew her hand back, but it was too late. That had been a distinctly friendly gesture. Since she had visited him a few times a year, she would have considered them to be friends if asked about it, but this was different.

"You're lucky Mikaela wasn't around to see that," he said after a stunned moment. "She's tear you to pieces for abusing the town's orphan bird." There was that forced quality to his nonchalance again. She wondered if he knew how little convincing he was at times like these.

"Are you going to see her again?" she asked, tired of dancing around the subject.

He shrugged and continued zipping things around the room with evident joy at being allowed to use magic again. "I don't know… we've talked a little about her visiting me, but she doesn't know… you know. She promised to write, but I didn't know what a Muggle address looked like."

Which brought up another question she had wanted to ask and had been oddly hesitant to bring up. "Where _will_ you be living?"

He looked at her in surprise again, but this time there was amusement there too, as if she had asked something uncharacteristically dense. "At home," he said. "Where else would I live?" And then he dropped his eyes and was looking anywhere else but at her.

"Right," she said faintly. She was sure he was thinking along the same lines she was – that in a sense it was as much her home as it was his. "I'm sure Mikaela would love it… to visit, I mean," she finished hastily. She wanted to add something else, that it was a lovely home, but she couldn't quite bring herself to say it.

He nodded. "It'll be nice to be home. It'll be strange, though… with no one else there." He shot her a quick look and then returned his attention to his packing.

She wanted to smile but did not dare. That was as good as an invitation to continue her sporadic visits. It was a large house for one person to share with only a house elf or two. She did not think about how it would feel for two people. She took him up on his offer once, for tea, but she felt far too awkward to return after that. It was impossible not to look around the lavish dining room and not feel that it should have been hers, or at least as much hers as Draco's. She should have sat at the head of the table, should have been the one to serve tea and things to her friends. The next time she came, she suggested they patronise one of the fashionable London cafés, and Draco was too eager to agree.

It was a sign of how much things had changed that their appearance barely generated one mention in the social column of _The Daily Prophet_ and another in _Witch's Weekly_. Of course, they were both a little stiff at being seen in public together and avoiding any contact that could possibly be construed as… overly friendly. All of her friends were careful not to mention it, either because they knew too much about that awkward situation or they knew too little.

Life was going on, and what was more, it was going on more cheerfully than she had expected, amid friends and family so genuinely proud of her and so glad to welcome her back into the world and a people that barely stopped short of throwing palms at her feet.

Summer faded into fall as fruit ripened on the vines and leaves burst into colour. For reasons she could not quite articulate, Hermione took a deep breath one morning and Apparated just outside the doorstep of a stately castle in southern France. Nifti was astonished to see her again and effusive in her delight. Marius grunted when he saw her, and she saw that any friend of Lucius would be under permanent suspicion from the man. She could hardly blame him for that. Edouard, on the other hand, was almost as happy to see her as the house elf and ordered her to tell him _everything_ that had happened while he was away over endless cups of tea, except, he added with a wink, the naughty bits which might prove too much for his old heart.

After recounting their stay at the mansion from their hurried arrival to their equally hurried departure, leaving out the naughty bits as requested and re-telling the wedding episode four or five times, Hermione remembered something Draco had told her and asked Edouard how on earth he had got ahold of the wedding ring Lucius had left behind in Paris. At this, Edouard had smiled mysteriously and changed the subject.

She had thought it would be painful to talk about Lucius so frankly, but it was actually a relief. Edouard knew everything Lucius had been accused of, in the early days and more recently, and still he retained steadfast loyalty. He was the only person Hermione knew, including Lucius's own son, who would not have died of shock if she had confessed that she thought she might love her husband. And as she was invited more and more often, she did confess, and as predicted, he did not die of shock. He did not seem surprised at all but promised with a mischievous grin to keep her secret.

That first conversation had led to change in Hermione's routine that almost no one knew about, save Edouard, who had inspired the change and Draco, who casually mentioned the matter and then refused to let her dissemble in her reply. She took to wearing Lucius's ring on a long chain around her neck, a thing made of tiny silver links which flowed like liquid over her skin. It was barely visible under her robes, a glint of silver when they shifted, and if anyone else noticed, they did not ask. She felt a little closer to him when she wore it, this object that had lain against his skin for so many years, especially since Draco had insisted that his father would have hated for her to visit him in prison. Normally she would not have let the opinion of Draco Malfoy, of all people, stop her from doing anything, but she was uncertain enough as it was about Lucius's feelings for her.

Somehow, Edouard had noticed, and he was elated when she told him what it was she was wearing under her robes. To Hermione's very great surprise, that conversation had morphed into a invitation for her to stay at Edouard's little _pied-à-terre_, a little flat he kept in Paris and used but rarely. And that was how she had come to be in Paris now, a little more than a year after the final triumph over Voldemort and Lucius's disappearance. She had discovered a long time ago that, when the parks were closed at night, the several bridging arcing over the Seine offered a pleasant area to stroll and look over the sparkling lights of the city.

She had gone in search of a particular ice cream stand and found it just minutes away from closing. After ordering the last ice cream cone they would serve that day, she ambled here, to a wide bridge adorned by an angel dressed in flowing raiment. As she recalled that this bridge was one of her favourites, she had a sudden attack of déjà vu. This scene before her was so familiar… standing here on a warm summer night, leaning on the railing with her elbows, staring over the expanse of black water glinting with reflected light. She almost expected to hear a voice behind her saying… no, the moment passed just as quickly as it had come.

She was nearly finished savouring the best ice cream in the world when a hand descended on her waist and an achingly familiar voice whispered in her ear, "Beautiful young women should not place themselves in such precarious positions." She shivered and giggled as his warm breath tickled her ear and neck.

"If you're not careful," she replied, "one of those young women is going to respond badly to your… advances, and you'll find yourself hard on the deck _sans_ wand and a little bit of your pride." She reached her empty hand around her middle to twine her fingers through his and then turned around to face him with a silly smile on her face.

"You're here," she said, feeling ridiculous for stating the obvious but unable to think of anything else to say.

"I might say the same for you, my darling." Her heart skipped a beat, and if she had any lingering doubts about his feelings for her, they died when she heard the way his voice caressed that term of endearment and saw the smile he was wearing.

They stood like that for a while, staring at one another and smiling, not in the least bit awkward amid the passing crowds. For her part, Hermione was drinking in the sight of him, soaking in his presence like a sponge. She thought she could have stood there for a year, happy to trace the planes of his face with her gaze and watch distant lights sparkle in his eyes. The only point of physical contact between them was their clasped hands; her other hand still held an ice cream cone slowly becoming soggy as the ice cream melted.

Lucius broke the still moment to look at her other hand and nod at her ice cream cone. "I implore you, do not let me keep you from enjoying… is that Berthillon?"

"Only the best."

He chuckled as he raised his free hand to rest on the back of her neck, idly drawing circles on her jaw with his thumb. "You have your refreshment, but I am a weary traveller in need of something a bit stronger. Tell me, is there somewhere you could recommend for a glass of something red?"

She knew what he was asking, but she had plans of her own. "I think I know of a place." As she finished her ice cream, she led him over the bridge and down a wide tree-lined boulevard, full of life even at this hour.

"One day," he said as they strolled hand-in-hand, "I shall have to introduce you to wizarding Paris. The Muggles do a… tolerable job here, but our section of Paris is breathtaking."

Speaking of Muggles, Lucius was dressed once more as one of those peoples he claimed to hold in such contempt. This time he looked much more casual, dressed in snug, dark jeans that hugged him very nicely. No one would believe her, she thought, if she claimed to have seen Lucius Malfoy wearing jeans, but there it was. In his defence, they were probably just as expensive as everything else he owned. His hair was a little longer, tied back in a short queue, and in the changeful light from the street lanterns that dotted the boulevard, he looked much as he always had.

She looked up at him and grinned. "Be still, my beating heart," she quipped, "did I hear you correctly?" He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Did you just make a future plan? A very nebulous plan at an indefinite point in time, but a plan nonetheless."

He stopped walking then, and his amused smile faded a little. "You did. With your permission, I would like to make more future plans with you, Hermione. I realise that though we are married, we never had a proper courtship."

Though he was obviously very serious on this point, Hermione could not quite suppress her good humour. "Lucius Malfoy… are you asking me out?"

His grin returned at that. "If you must put it like that… yes, I am."

She wanted to say something cheeky, but her wit failed her. Her smile widened as she turned back to continue on their way. "Then let's get going."

They crossed into a smaller street and then to a quiet courtyard, and Hermione was sure she could _feel_ Lucius wanting to ask where they were going but restraining himself. She led him through a gate, fished in her pocket for a key, and then brought him inside an old stone building.

"I believe you'll find quite an eclectic offering here; I daresay something will catch your fancy," she said as they climbed a flight of narrow spiral stairs.

He glanced at her curiously, but she only gave him a mysterious smile in return. "We're almost there."

She stopped in front of one of the doors that opened directly to the staircase, found another key, and opened the door. "I hope you don't think this is too forward of me, but as you'll recall, I had to wait four years before this marriage was consummated. I'm not inclined to wait another four."

He did not think it was too forward at all. There in the doorway he leaned in for a long kiss and then, to her shock, he bent down and swept her into his arms. She laughed aloud and just managed to turn on a light so he would see where he was going. To no one's surprise, he strode past the kitchen without a second glance and carried her straight into the master bedroom, from whence neither of them emerged for a very long time afterward.

Life was by no means settled and by no means idyllic, and Hermione was not the sort of woman who needed a man to make her life complete… but life was looking especially beautiful in one Parisian flat that night.

_Fin_

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**A/N: Thank you for the ride, my friends! I could not have imagined I would get such an overwhelming, positive response to my humble tale. I always say this every time I finished a story, but this is probably my favorite (fine, favourite) fic I've written yet. I'm glad so many of you have enjoyed it! **

**Self promotion: about a week ago, I wrote an angsty little Lucius/Hermione one-shot, not much like this at all. If you'd like to check it out, it's called _Later_. Did I mention that it's angsty? Also, it came to my attention that there were some discrepancies in this story, and I think I've got those all fixed. **

**I know this ending left a lot of unanswered questions; I hate writing endings, and they always turn out very ambiguous. I'll leave you to fill in the details of their mad, wonderful life together after they _finally_ emerge from that bedroom, and I'll leave it up to you to determine just how Harry and Ron managed to defeat Voldemort… because I have no idea. If you think of something good, leave me a note or drop me an e-mail; I love hearing from you folks! **

**Thanks again! I had a marvellous time, and maybe one of these days another story will hatch in my brain.**** I'm gonna miss writing this during class and after class and in frenzied hurries at midnight and weekend mornings through afternoon.**** You've been lovely! **


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